Golden
by The Science Of Seduction
Summary: He wasn't always what you thought he was. Sherlock/John, AU, OC. M for violence and because I say so.
1. Chapter 1

He wasn't always what you thought he was. He used to be a happy child. Not in public, God no. But he was when he was alone. Even though he was never really alone. He always had John.

Equipped with a tiny backpack and a fitted school uniform, Sherlock Holmes made his way from his manor to school and back again. Upon his return, his uniform had become untucked in places and his bag would move from his back to his hand. He was always greeted by an energetic John, and it always made him smile.  
>Sherlock first met John at the nearby pet store, and he immediately became infatuated with him. John was a golden Labrador puppy with blue eyes, which was unusual for a dog. After deducing loudly that the store owner was having several affairs and was going bankrupt and on the verge of starving the animals at the store, Sherlock managed to get his puppy for free. Mycroft's route home from his school led him to cross paths with his younger brother. He didn't bother to ask trivial questions about the new addition to Sherlock's life, but instead asked one important question:<br>"What are you naming him?" Sherlock gave this a small thought and he settled on  
>"John."<br>"Oh. Why?"  
>"I'm bored with fancy names like yours and mine. I just want his name to be plain and easy to remember. John."<br>"I see," John let out a small 'yip' from Sherlock's backpack, which made him smile.

Throughout his teenage years, Sherlock found solace in his companion. He could take the abuse at school, that was no problem. He just wished there was someone who would be there for him like John. His once clean look of a boy representing the school dress code had altered to a pair of black skinny jeans with converse shoes covered over with a baggy white dress shirt that hid his palms and abdominal area. His small backpack still clung to his back, but one of the straps always found itself halfway down his left bicep.  
>He dumped his bag onto his bed, waking John. John barked at him quietly and put his head on a cushion. Sherlock walked past, rubbing John's head and sitting down at his desk. John let out a long breath that sounded like a sigh and watched Sherlock, who was watching the house across the road from the manor.<br>Sherlock had a strange theory. Ever since he first saw that girl getting changed with her window open he thought she was an idiot. Then he wondered why he thought she was an idiot and not 'hot' like a typical male thought. His theory is that if he watches her enough times, something in his brain will kick in and he'll at least have something a normal boy should- an interest in women. At the moment, however, he was stuck with being asexual. John huffed at him again and Sherlock closed the curtain.

The next day, Sherlock's interest peaked when the house across the road had adopted a 'For Sale' sign. He had grown bored of deducing what happened in the everyday lives of the current owners. New owners would keep him entertained for a while.  
>The day they moved was a weekend, so Sherlock busied himself with his window again. John sat on his bed and looked out the window with him.<br>"See that, John?" Sherlock pointed at a bed that was being placed in the mover's truck, "that's the parent's bed. Their second daughter has had sex five times on that bed with her boy...no, girlfriend," John let out a small bark and wagged his tail. Sherlock petted his head and smiled, "that lounge has had five previous owners, all of whom got rid of it at a second hand shop. No, wait... one of them found it at the dump."  
>The rest of the day continued like this. After the family left, Sherlock busied himself with a book on forensic science. He shivered at the cold air blowing in through the window and snarled as a snowflake landed on the page and melted. As he reached to close the window, he spotted a gleam of the sun's reflection from an item in the house across the road. Naturally curious, he put on his jacket and scarf and headed downstairs. He winced as Mycroft caught him on his way to the door.<br>"And you're going where?"  
>"I'm taking John for a walk." he lied. Mycroft smiled at him and locked the door.<br>"John's asleep in your room," _  
>Traitor, <em>Sherlock thought, "Fine. I'll just go for a walk by myself."  
>"I'll join you then," Mycroft unlocked the door, still beaming with his annoyingly smug smile. Sherlock growled and followed him out the door.<p>

"Sherlock," Started Mycroft halfway down the street. His black umbrella was stained with white spots from the snow, and he was looking blankly into the distance, like his brother.  
>"What?" Sherlock replied.<br>"You were going to go to the house, weren't you?"  
>"It's none of your business."<br>"It's none of yours, either."  
>"Can we go home now?" Sherlock snapped. He didn't wait for an answer, turning instead back up the street. Mycroft smiled and slowly paced behind him.<br>No sooner had Mycroft reached the house than he had bumped into Sherlock. He snapped out of his daze and looked at Sherlock's face. It was twisted in anger. He followed Sherlock's gaze to the object of his fury- the small black car in the driveway. Mycroft took Sherlock's hand and firmly led him across the estate and towards the manor. As they reached the car, Sherlock made the effort to spit on the wheel like a derelict child. Mycroft found it disgusting, but not unusual under the circumstances. As they reached the door, Sherlock twisted out of Mycroft's grip and grappled on to one of the columns, aiming to climb to his window. Mycroft pulled him down and glared at him. Sherlock glared back as Mycroft slowly opened the door.  
>"Mycroft!" bellowed the car's owner, "what on Earth are do doing out in this weather?"<br>"I was going for a walk, Sir," he replied as Sherlock tried to sneak up to his room unnoticed. He had almost made it until John came running down the stairs, greeting Sherlock loudly.  
>"This was your idea, wasn't it, Sherlock?" said the man, suddenly close to Sherlock. Sherlock avoided his gaze, glaring at the ground with his jaw clenched tightly, "answer me," Sherlock grunted in reply and the man edged closer to Sherlock, their faces barely centimetres away from each other. The aggressive tension between them filled the whole room, and John was suddenly growling and defending Sherlock with his teeth bared.<br>"Get out of my way, dog!" spat the man, reaching his hand out to push John away.  
>"Father, no!" Mycroft exclaimed. John snapped at the hand before him, drawing blood from his palms. The Holmes father howled in pain.<br>"Why the hell did your dog bite me, boy?" he screamed at Sherlock.  
>"He was protecting me," Sherlock mumbled.<br>"This is your fault, you know," he growled at Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged at moved his gaze from the floor to his father, glaring at the man. Sherlock's father slapped him brutally across the face, sending Sherlock to the floor with red marks from both the impact and his father's blood, "how dare you look at me like that, you ignorant child. I should have you out on the street for disrespecting me. If you so much as look at me like that again, you can kiss your disgusting dog goodbye."

Sherlock was lying on his back with his hands behind his head. John had joined him on the bed and was using Sherlock's bony arm as a head rest. Sherlock's face was bruised from the impact of his father. He turned to face John, smiling as his companion's eyebrows shifted quizzically as he looked around the room.  
>"Thanks for standing up for me," Sherlock whispered. John barked softly and Sherlock closed his eyes.<p>

**I'm back!  
>Yes, I know. Exciting stuff. It's been a tad difficult finding the energy to actually write. I have the ideas, it's just I sometimes forget that I'm meant to be writing <strong>***ordoinghomeworkcoughcough* I'm getting a new laptop soon, which I can use at my other house (three hours away) and hopefully I'll get chapters done sooner. Now, I know what a lot of you may be thinking, so consider this if you wish :**

**********************************************************************************  
>***SPOILER ALERT***<strong>

**There is definitely no bestiality, or any hint of it. I do not like the idea of bestiality, therefore I will not write about it. There will be Sherlock/John slash, but it will be between Sherlock and John WATSON, not Sherlock and John, if you get what I'm saying.  
>John the dog is an OC, and his significance will be revealed later. I did not change John Watson into a dog.<strong>

*****SPOILER END*****

**Thanks for reading :3**


	2. Chapter 2

There was never much to see outside of Sherlock's window. There was even less now that the people across the street had moved. Sherlock sat at his desk and stared listlessly out the window, subconsciously rubbing the bruise on his cheek. Mycroft knocked lightly on the door. He could tell it was him because he was the only one who knocked.  
>"What?" mumbled Sherlock. Mycroft slowly opened the door and crept inside. The look on his face was solemn.<br>"Sherlock, I'm sorry." Mycroft whispered.  
>"I don't care. Go away."<br>"I know you expected me-"  
>"I don't expect anything from you, Mycroft. Leave." Mycroft opened his mouth to peak, but instead crept back out of the door. John and Sherlock looked at each other.<br>"Get the door, John," John huffed and walked to the door. He jumped up on his hind legs and clicked the lock shut with his nose. It had taken Sherlock months to train him to do that. By the time the door was locked, Sherlock had already made his way out the window and was halfway across the street.

The house across the street was far smaller than the Holmes manor. It was a two storey house made of brick with a peeling, green, wooden door. The thick ivy on the wall allowed Sherlock access to the chipped shingle roof, and from there he climbed down to the windowsill of the woman who used to change with her window wide open. The window was stupidly left unlocked and Sherlock pushed his way inside.  
>The room was fairly small and bare, except for a desk that seemed to be fixed to the wall. There was a slither of sunlight running from the top of the desk down to the bottom drawer. He looked through the drawers, finding that they were full of junk that the previous owners had probably forgotten to clean out. There was a small shoe box full of seemingly unused scientific equipment, such as spare slides and test tubes, and various other objects. A pocket watch, a pair of glasses with cracked lenses and a water bottle. Sherlock unscrewed the top and sniffed at the water. It was extremely stagnant. At least four or five years old. <em>It's been here for longer than the past owners have, <em>Sherlock thought, _perhaps this desk wasn't even used. They probably didn't know this stuff was here._ Sherlock sighed at the box and left it on the windowsill, continuing to search for the object he had seen the other day.  
>Across the hall was another room. It was slightly larger than the other one and had some mould growing in the closet. He could smell it. The curtains on the window were drawn, and the slither of sunlight on the drawers was a result of the window. There was only a little sunlight, however, and at the moment the sun was barely shining through from the other window. The one Sherlock had come through. He pulled open the curtains to find an enormous ornate window with a small circular mirror in the middle. The mirror caught the sunlight and reflected it back onto the drawers. Logical. It must have been the mirror he saw when he looked across the street that day. Sherlock left and headed downstairs, only to be greeted by a locked door at the bottom. The door was locked on the other side and Sherlock hadn't brought his lock pick, so he went back upstairs.<br>"Fuck," he hissed as he entered the first room. The water bottle's lid had been left unscrewed, and in the time it took for him to search around, it had toppled, leaked and frozen onto the windowsill. He had been out for too long, long enough for Mycroft to notice he was missing. And if Mycroft knew, so would his father. Sherlock shoved the pocket watch and the glasses into his pockets, and let the slides and tubes fall onto the snow. If somebody walked past, they would be less noticeable. It's not like he was stealing, in a sense. They didn't belong to anyone. Well, anyone who cared about them, he guessed. He put the shoebox back into the drawer and cautiously climbed onto the windowsill. Sherlock stretched his arms out to grab hold of the roof, but he was only just short. Carefully, he rolled up onto the tips of his toes and was about to grab the roof when his left foot slipped. His mouth opened and his eyes widened as he fell, and he made a soft grunt as he hit the snow below. One of his heels had crushed a slide, but the rest of the glass remained glittering and unharmed in the snow. Though the snow had fallen heavily since his and Mycroft's walk, the impact still made his back ache, and he swore as he sat up. He heard footsteps coming towards him, so he grabbed the slides and tubes as fast as he could manage and went to stand.  
>"Are you alright?" came an unfamiliar voice. Sherlock refused to turn, just in case it was an associate of Mycroft or his father.<br>"Fine," he grunted. He painfully stood, still avoiding the man speaking to him.  
>"You just fell from the second storey window! What were you doing anyway? There's a perfectly good door here!"<br>"It's locked. So was the one leading to the other windows, before you ask."  
>"What? Didn't your parents give you the key?"<br>"My parents do not give me anything. Even if they did, I highly doubt it would be the key to this house."  
>"But, you live in it, don't you?"<br>"...No."  
>"Shit, man! You shouldn't be stealing at this age!"<br>"I wasn't. No-one lives here."  
>"Then what were you doing?"<br>"None of your damn business!" Sherlock only caught a glimpse of a pair of blue jeans and a burgundy jacket as he turned slightly to escape to the manor.

Sherlock pressed his ear against the wood of the manor door. Not only did the air wafting from behind the door stink of alcohol, but he could hear his father snoring on the lounge. Sherlock took this opportunity to sneak up to his bedroom. He knocked lightly twice and he could hear John jumping off the bed and towards the door. He quickly slid into his room when he heard the lock click open and was greeted with John wagging his tail and nuzzling Sherlock's hand. Sherlock smiled and dumped the contents of his pockets onto his desk. The lens of the glasses were cracked badly, but the pocket watch seemed intact. It wasn't surprising when he discovered the battery had died, but it was a bit eerie when he saw it was stopped at midnight. He dismissed it and stored the objects in his own desk drawers.  
>"Boy!" came a drunken voice, "boy, get your arshe down here!" <em>brilliant, <em>Sherlock thought, _he's at the "sh" stage. _Sherlock ignored his father and continued to flick through a book he had picked up.  
>"Didn't you hear me, boy? I shaid, get your arshe down here!" after a couple of minutes of Sherlock ignoring him, Sherlock's father proceeded to stagger up to his room<br>"Boy!" he spat. Sherlock span in his chair to face the clearly over-intoxicated man.  
>"And where is Mummy in all this?" he asked calmly.<br>"Shut up! Thish ishn't about your mother! Thish ish about your dog!"  
>"What, John? What did he do, exactly?" Sherlock's father indicated towards his crotch.<br>"He pished on my pantsh!"  
>"I would find that understandable if the stain was further down your leg, but seeing as how it isn't, it is <em>your <em>fault, not John's. And I would appreciate it if you left my room. Now," Sherlock turned away, and his drunken father's face adopted a dirty grimace. He stumbled towards Sherlock's chair and shook his index finger pointedly at the young man.  
>"How dare you… you fuckwit of a child. You… do <em>not<em>… shpeak to me like that!"  
>"Get out of my room," Sherlock heard his father storm out of the room before collapsing at the top of the stairs and vomiting. He sighed<p>

Mycroft paced steadily down the footpath leading away from the manor. The snow had cleared so he was happy to twirl his umbrella in his hand by the handle. _Sherlock's fiddling in his room, mother's off to God knows where and father's drunk! _He thought happily to himself. No doubt it was easy for him to slip out of the manor.

Mycroft could hear the faint clicking of a keypad. He smiled and tapped the point of his umbrella on the apartment door. The clicking stopped and Mycroft heard a chair slide on the floor. His heart was pounding in his chest. He straightened his suit and shifted his stance, his smile still plastered onto his face. The door opened and he was greeted with a warm smile that matched his own.  
>"Hello, you," greeted the owner. He beckoned Mycroft into the apartment, breathing gently on his neck as he walked past. Mycroft gathered every reserve of his strength not to collapse onto the floor.<br>*~*


	3. Chapter 3

"John," called his mother cheerily. John woke with a slight headache from studying the day before. His family were moving soon, and he was to enrol in a high-class school.  
>John reflected on the day before. He had gone to look at the house they were moving into. It was a nice house, if not a little old. There was some sort of plant growing on the side and the paint was peeling a little. It looked spacious, however, and overall he was quite content with it. He heard a noise from within- far too big for a rodent of any kind. Plus, it sounded like they were pulling at the curtains. He was pretty sure mice couldn't do that. He hid behind a nearby shrub and soon a litter of glass objects rained down from the second storey window. Confused, he stood to investigate when suddenly a figure clad in a dark coat appeared on the windowsill. He saw the person try to grab hold of the roof and suddenly fall off. John rushed to him to help him up. He was a little shorter than John, and for some reason, he refused to look at John. The whole ordeal was confusing to John. The boy obviously lived in the manor across the road. It was a fancy home, so he must be rich. But then, why was he taking things from John's future home?<br>John hurried down the stairs at the call of his mother. He sat at the table next to his father.  
>"Studying hard?" inquired his father from behind his newspaper.<br>"Yeah. A little too hard, actually," he smiled.  
>"Well, you have to get into the new school. By the way, did you meet any new people when you checked the house out?"<br>"Oh, um," John wondered if he should tell his father about the strange boy from the house, "…no. No-one was out yesterday," his father nodded and turned back to his paper.

John waited anxiously for the mail for the next week. The exams were difficult, and he wasn't certain he'd be accepted into the school. His parents reassured him that it would be fine, but he was still clinging to the underlying feeling that he wasn't good enough. The week after he finished the exam, the results arrived. He put the envelope on the table and sat down. He stared at the envelope for at least an hour before he had the courage to call for one of his parents to open it. His father came down and his mother followed a short time later. He and his mother stood next to the table as his father carefully opened it. They looked as if they were disarming a bomb, not opening a letter. The letter was unfolded and his father gave John a stern look before sighing. John's mother clutched at his hand. His father flipped the letter and showed them the results.  
>"I… I passed?" John stammered. His father nodded and embraced him and his mother.<br>"I'm proud of you, son," he whispered.

It was a couple of days before Christmas and John was still ecstatic that he managed to get into the school. On Christmas day they would be moving into their new house and John would prepare for his new life in his new neighbourhood. John was filled with joy. He loved Christmas.

**Mmm, yes, it's a short one. I needed to start/finish John's background story. Trust me, it'll get longer from here. I **_**have **_**been a little busy of late and I still don't have unlimited access to a computer. I'm going to my other house this weekend so I'll see how much I can get done on that computer.  
>I've started the next chapter already, so I'll try and be quicker with it. It's a bit dark so be careful.<br>~Take a Shock Blanket with you~  
>SH<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

Of course it was normal for Sherlock to assume that he was happy at some point. I mean, look at how innocent children are. Surely he was like that once.  
>Indeed he was. But only for that one day when he met John. The dog, that is. As many people are no doubt aware, Sherlock found solace and contentment in John. John was always there for him when he needed him.<br>But it was because of John that Sherlock hated Christmas.

Mycroft had gone missing for the night again. Sherlock was used to this. In approximately three hours he would return smelling faintly of "Obsession" by Calvin Klein. Sherlock didn't mind that smell, even thought it told him of the activities that Mycroft had participated in the previous night. It was a comforting female smell that made up for the continuous absence of his mother. Whoever this woman was, Mycroft was lucky to have her.  
>Two hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-five seconds later Sherlock held his hand up dramatically and counted down on his fingers. When his hand had finally closed into a fist, Mycroft opened the door of the manor as softly as he could. John perked up on the bed, looked at Sherlock and fell back asleep. Mycroft slid wordlessly past Sherlock's door, looking solemn as Sherlock glared over his book. Both he and Mycroft heard the sound of his father rolling over on the lounge downstairs and instantly Mycroft knew why he was glaring. Sherlock pulled the book away from his face to reveal an enormous purple mark on the left hand side of his face. He swivelled on his chair as Mycroft drew closer to him and Mycroft saw the crimson mess that stuck to his hair. Father had smashed his head open with a bottle.<br>"How?" he managed to choke.  
>"He woke up in a pool of his own vomit, thought I put him there and proceeded to punish me."<br>"Sherlock-"  
>"I've already told you, I don't expect anything from you. Now, please leave," Mycroft sighed and stepped out of the room, leaving John to nuzzle at Sherlock's leg. He smiled and patted him on the head. It was Christmas Eve after all. He had to at least <em>try <em>to be happy.

Sherlock woke in the middle of the night because of a trembling mass at the end of his bed. He got up and crossed the room to turn the light on. Looking back on it, sometimes Sherlock wished he hadn't. John was shaking violently on the bed. Sherlock called to him and he tried to get off the bed, but his legs betrayed him and he was sent crashing to the floor. Sherlock rushed to him, seeing the look of fear and bewilderment that glazed John's eyes. John was having a seizure and Sherlock didn't know what to do. He called out for Mycroft, his father, his mother, anyone to try and help him, but then he remembered. Mycroft had left for the night, mother was still missing and his father wouldn't return from the pub until three. He was alone with John, and there wasn't enough time for emergency services to come. They would take about fifteen minutes, and he knew John wouldn't last that long, but he called anyway. He pressed himself against John, hoping that by some miracle he would live. He could hear John's heart thundering in his chest, he could see the growing fear in his eyes, and he could feel the never ending tremors that controlled his body. Tears rolled down Sherlock's face and mixed with the saliva dribbling from John's mouth. Sherlock heard the sirens of the emergency vehicles at the end of the street when the tremors finally stopped. Sherlock held John closer to him, trying desperately to hear the heartbeat, to feel his breath.  
>John died at two twenty-one on the twenty-fifth of December, and it filled Sherlock with hatred.<br>*~*

Mycroft came back to the manor at four-thirty in the morning, hoping that nobody would notice his absence. He walked past Sherlock's door and found it to be closed. He knocked lightly, and when there was no reply he knocked harder. Worried at the silence, he burst into the room. It was empty except for a small puddle that shone in the moonlight. _Saliva,_ thought Mycroft. He quickly analysed the facts- both Sherlock and John were missing, there was a puddle of saliva on the floor, but Sherlock's bed sheets were only ruffled at the end of his bed. Conclusion- something happened to John.

Sherlock entered the manor just as Mycroft was about to leave. Sherlock pushed past him, clutching a small jar and completely ignoring his older brother. Mycroft called out to him as he climbed the stairs, but all that passed through his mind were his memories of John.  
>John, who he had trained to lock his door.<br>John, who he had first met at the dodgy pet shop in town.  
>John, who responded to him like he was talking.<br>John, who raised his eyebrows when he looked around a room.  
>John, who slept at the end of Sherlock's bed and kept his feet warm.<br>John, the only thing in the world that loved Sherlock.  
>John, the only thing in the world Sherlock loved.<br>Sherlock walked into his room and immediately his eyes focused on the puddle on his floor. It had shrunk since he had last seen it. Sherlock knew that soon it would dry up and disappear, much like John. He lay down on his bed, still clutching his jar. Mycroft was at the door, hesitant as to whether he should come in or not.  
>"Sherlock?"<p>

"Sherlock, please talk to me."

"...Is that John?"  
>Sherlock nodded, but his eyes were still distant and cold. Mycroft stepped into the room and stood just in front of the doorway.<br>"I'm sorry," Mycroft slowly made his way further into the room. He stretched out his arm to try and comfort Sherlock, and was only centimetres away when Sherlock snapped.  
>"Get away from me!" he slapped Mycroft's hand away and sat himself in the corner of the bed, staring daggers at Mycroft and wrapping his arms tighter around the jar.<br>"Sherlock, I'm so-"  
>"Who is she?"<br>"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"  
>"Who is the woman that killed John?"<br>"I really don't know what you're on about..."  
>"She took you away from John and I and now he's dead because..."<br>"Because why, Sherlock?" It's was Mycroft's turn to snap, "because I have a life? Because I can't pick up the pieces for you? Because I constantly need to be there for you? Why, Sherlock? Tell me why he died!"  
>"Because you're my brother," he whimpered, "and you always know what to do. You could have saved him, but you weren't here. You were with <em>her<em>."  
>"No, Sherlock. You don't understand..."<br>*~*


	5. Chapter 5

"Hello?" came a voice at the door. John walked hastily down the stairs of the new house, being cautious not to slip on them. He opened the door to find a young man with short, silver hair smiling at him.  
>"How can I help you?" John greeted pleasantly.<br>"Um, I'm Constable Lestrade and..."  
>"Oh, uh, my parents are out at the moment, can I take a message for them, officer?"<br>"No, no, it's not necessary. Uh... do you know anyone by the name of Mycroft Holmes?"  
>"Mycroft? Hmm..." John saw the officer's face go a deep red, "no, I'm sorry, I'm new here so I don't know many of the-"<br>"You're new? As in, just moved in?"  
>"Yes."<br>"What house is this?"  
>"Forty-one."<br>"Oh. I'm looking for forty-two."  
>"Ah," John looked over at the manor across the road, "try that house."<br>"Right. Sorry to waste your time," Lestrade turned and went towards the manor, but then stopped and turned around, "sorry, but do you mind if I ask your name?"  
>"John. John Watson," John smiled, "nice perfume, by the way," Lestrade blushed again.<br>"Thanks. It's called "Obsession" or something like that. All the guys at the station think it makes me smell girly... but I like it. Anyway, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Watson."  
>"You too, Constable Lestrade," John closed the door and went back up to his room, still smiling, "huh," he said to himself, "I've been here for a day and already I've made a friend."<p>

Sherlock was watching listlessly out his window at nothing in particular. The house across the road had been filled with its occupants this morning and now he gathered only the youngest of the family was still inside. The parents were probably shopping or some other boring thing. His eyes shifted to the stranger that was approaching the house, his curiosity activated for a split second before he quickly deduced what he was doing, shifting his eyes to some empty space that wasn't important.

The doorbell rang and he heard Mycroft walk past his room to get to the door. He faltered in his step as he reached Sherlock's open door.  
>"Don't look at me like that," said Sherlock, his voice void of emotion, "answer the door."<br>Mycroft left and Sherlock sighed, turning his head to the other side of the window. His window was ajar, letting the conversation below waft into his room as well as a familiar scent.

Mycroft answered the door, finding his silver-haired partner shivering on the porch.  
>"Greg…" Mycroft smiled. Lestrade smiled back and his shivering was slightly less violent.<br>"Mind if I come in?" he asked. Mycroft nodded his head and held the door open for him. Lestrade wiped the snow off his feet on the welcoming mat before stepping inside.  
>Lestrade and Mycroft sat in front of the fireplace in the loungeroom. Each of them had a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of them and Lestrade smiled and pulled a long box out of his coat on the floor.<br>"Merry Christmas," he whispered as he handed the box to Mycroft. He opened the box and smiled broadly at the contents, "that's top notch stuff. Very expensive. I thought you'd like it."  
>"I do. Thank you," he pulled the black umbrella out of the box and studied it with awe. He noticed an engraving on the handle, "<em>Forever Yours, G.L.<em> Greg… this is…" Lestrade chuckled at Mycroft.  
>"So even if the weather's bad, you'll think of me and smile," at that, Mycroft pulled a small box out from his pocket and handed it to the constable.<br>"Merry Christmas to you too," he chuckled.  
>"What is it?"<br>"It's a gold ring with _Forever Yours, M.H_ engraved on it," came a robotic voice from the stairs. They turned and saw Sherlock standing on the last step with one hand on the rail and the other clutching a small glass jar that was mostly covered by his dirty blue silk robe, "I see idiotic minds think alike," he droned as he walked into the kitchen.  
>"Thank you," whispered Lestrade to Mycroft, "…is that your brother?"<br>"Yes, that's Sherlock."  
>"How is he?"<br>"I'm fine," came the drone from the kitchen, "I'd be far better if you hadn't have come."  
>"Ignore him," reassured Mycroft. He does it to everyone, it's nothing personal.<br>"Oh, but it _is_ personal, dear brother. Tell me, Lestrade, is that _women's_ perfume you're wearing?"  
>"Yes," Lestrade blushed, "so?"<br>"Do you know the name of it?"  
>"Oh… um… Obsession or something or other…"<br>"Correct. The same perfume my brother reeks of when he returns home late of a night. Now, from the intimacy of your… _gift giving_… one can assume you are romantically involved but this fact clinches it."  
>"Sherlock…" Mycroft had a hint of warning in his voice.<br>"What? I don't get it," Lestrade looked confusingly between them as he tried to make sense of the situation. Sherlock started to walk slowly, almost zombie-like, towards the constable. His cold, lifeless eyes staring into Lestrade's, making him feel uncomfortable. His hardened face turned into a vicious snarl as he drew closer until his was barely a centimetre away from his face.  
>"You kept Mycroft away from me. You <em>murdered <em>John. _I. Hate. You._"  
>"Sherlock," glared Mycroft, "I think you should go to your room. <em>Now.<em>" Sherlock huffed dramatically and trudged up the stairs.

Sherlock slammed the door of his room shut and crawled into his bed. His face was beginning to moisten with tears. He clutched the jar closer to his chest and dug his face into the pillow.  
>"Why, John…" he whimpered, "why did you have to leave me?"<p>

**Well… this chapter's finished :3****  
>I'm trying to update as often as possible with lengthy chapters but I have no computer (except for the ones at school) and I have lots of schoolwork to do…<strong>**  
>But I'll do my best!<strong>**  
>I'm also going to be starting some drabbles to lift the dark crap off my mind, so keep a look out over the next few weeks if you want :D<strong>**  
>Also, June 18<strong>**th**** and 19****th**** I'll be at Supanova at Sydney so if you're there too you'll probably see me walking around in my Sherlock gear (and/or Kuroshitsuji Undertaker gear if it gets here in time) I'm pretty short and probably will be walking with my friends who are going to be Grell and Alois. (if you're not sure, just ask if I'm Arakai)****  
>Just if you're interested :3<strong>**  
>I'll see what I can do regarding the chapters.<strong>**  
>SH<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

School couldn't have come any sooner. Before they knew it, John and Sherlock would be starting their first day of school for the year. For John, this was unnerving. He knew nothing of the new school apart from the fact that it was highly respected, and he hoped the students would be welcoming. For Sherlock, it was both a relief and a worry. A relief because he would be away from his father; and a worry because he would be closer to the students that were at said school. He would be foolish to think that the students had matured since the junior years and were now respectful of others in their last two years of school. Sherlock knew they'd be the same. They were always the same.

John stood on the pavement in front of his house, looking for signs of the bus that was to pick him up in a matter of minutes, if it managed to stay on schedule. He shifted his shoulder bag, trying to find a comfortable position where it wouldn't slip as he shivered in the cold. His long sleeved white shirt was soft against his skin and the black blazer, pants and red tie kept him relatively warm and smart. He liked this uniform, but when the wind blew it slipped between the button-up folds and brushed along his stomach. He shuddered again.  
>A truck passed him, and as the back of it slipped from his view, he suddenly saw a figure across the road. The pale, lanky boy with a mop of black curls seemed to stare distantly at him. He wore the uniform suit, but over the top he had a trench coat that looked a little short for him and he had substituted the crimson tie for an almost navy scarf. A small black bag hung from his gloved hand and John wondered how he managed to fit anything in it. He looked up and down the road and saw the bus coming towards him. He crossed to the other side and waited with the strange boy. His distant eyes snapped back to reality as the small bus pulled in front of them. Sherlock got on first and was greeted with "how's being a freak going for you?" from the bus driver.<br>"About the same as you being a stripper- very well," he retaliated flatly.  
>"Don't think you can insult me-"<br>"I'm not," he cut in, "you've still got glitter in your hair from last night," the bus driver scowled at him. John walked on awkwardly after him, greeting with a friendly "good morning, Sir," as the driver grumbled and drove them to the school.

The bus was made to seat around twenty people. Most of them were primary students going to a nearby school, and after they disembarked, only John and Sherlock were left. John looked continuously over at Sherlock, wondering if he should start a conversation to break the silence of the trip. He opened his mouth to speak as the bus hit a bump in the road. Sherlock's small bag bounced and the contents spilled out as it landed. He quickly scrambled to collect his possessions and John's eyes quickly absorbed what was stuffed into the bag. The first thing he grabbed was a small jar filled with some black powdery substance. He then picked up a square sliding microscope, several pens, a small book and finally a pack of cigarettes. Sherlock shot him a dirty look before clasping onto his bag to secure it from any more spillages. The remainder of the trip was made even more awkward.

When the bus finally stopped, John stood in awe of the college that was laid out before him. It was like a massive castle, the sort of establishment that would be saved for universities, not high schools. The whole place had a Gothic feel to it. There were long spires sticking out from the rooves and spiked buttresses supporting the dark walls. Sherlock passed John with an air of indifference and shuffled his way through the black, metal gates. John walked after him, following him through the expansive grounds. After a while, Sherlock came to a stop. He turned to face John, still bearing his expressionless look.  
>"Stop following me," he droned. John looked around confusedly, "yes, I'm talking to you. I know you're the new boy who moved into the house across the road from me. I know it's your first day here and I know you have no idea where you're going."<br>"Yes, well-"  
>"Of course I know various other things about you, but now's not the time. You should be going to the assembly in the hall where all the other students are going if you look behind you. I am obviously not going. I have things to do that do not concern you, so go away and follow those other idiots," John opened his mouth to speak but then shut it again. Sherlock turned away from him and walked towards the back of the school. John also turned and found a pack of students heading off through a small archway. He jogged after them, merging with a small pack of newcomers who were nervously following the other students. When all the students came to a halt outside what looked like a small cathedral, John introduced himself to a boy near him that looked about his age.<br>"Hey, I'm John. John Watson," he extended his hand to the boy, who smiled and shook it firmly.  
>"Hi," he replied cheerfully, "my name's James. You new here?"<br>"Yeah. You?"  
>"No, I've been here for a few years now. I'll help you around, if you like."<br>"Thanks, I appreciate it. I'm happy not everyone is as rude as that other boy…"  
>"Other boy?" James tilted his head and furrowed his eyebrows, "can you point him out?"<br>"No, he said he wasn't going to be here," James relaxed his face and rolled his eyes as he smiled.  
>"Oh, <em>him. <em>Don't worry about him; he's just a bit strange. Come on, we're going in now," John followed James into the hall, taking a seat next to him once they entered.  
>Once everyone was seated, the headmaster stood behind the podium and welcomed everyone to the new year at the school. He spent about an hour talking about values and the importance of uniforms and other regulations that needed to be enforced before informing them of their new Senior Timetable and Senior Locker Area. Multiple teachers headed along the rows and handed out envelopes to the students. John opened his and found a timetable and a key.<br>"What number did you get?" James whispered.  
>"221A. What's that?"John asked quietly.<br>"Locker 221 on the A side. Someone could have the same number as you but on the B side, meaning their locker will be opposite yours."  
>"Oh, right. So where are you?"<br>"220A. Right next to you," he smiled. After the teachers handed out all the envelopes, the headmaster dismissed them.

John opened his locker once they were in the locker area, which turned out to be an extensive hallway in the eastern wing of the school. The black lockers were taller than John, and each had gold numbers and letters to show which locker was which. The inside of the locker was also black, and featured five shelves with at least half a meter of space between them.  
>"How the hell am I meant to reach to top?" John mused audibly. James chuckled next to him, "What?" John asked.<br>"Here, I'll show you," James led John out of the way and locked the door hinges in place. He then pushed a metal stopper on the outmost bottom corner of the door before pulling out a foldable ladder that was attached to the door. John stared at it in awe before stepping onto the ladder to test its stability, "and you just reverse the process to close the door. The ladder has small magnets on the legs that attach to the door when you fold it up so you don't hurt yourself. But they're not so strong that you struggle to unfold it."  
>"Clever," John noted.<br>"Yeah, a previous school dux designed it and they've been used ever since. Mycroft, I think his name was…"  
>"Mycroft?"<br>"Yeah, you know him?"  
>"No… The name's just familiar to me," John shrugged. James smiled at him and led him to his first lesson.<br>There was still half an hour before the lesson was due to start, so James took this opportunity to explain the time table to John as they wandered.  
>"So each room has a combination of letters and numbers. The first character is always a letter. It tells you which block it's in. The second character is either a number or a letter depending on the floor the room is on, and the last two are always numbers as they represent the room number. So for example… E107 is room number seven on the first floor of E block, and… HG11 is the eleventh room on the ground floor of H block," he explained.<br>"That seems pretty simple. So the rooms have the numbers on them?"  
>"Yep."<br>"So room E107 actually has 'E107' on the door?"  
>"That's right. It's so new people don't get lost as easily."<br>"Thanks, James. You're a really nice friend," John smiled. James seemed uncomfortable as John said this, "oh, sorry, I just assumed you were my-"  
>"No, it's fine. It's just… If you want to be my friend, I think I should tell you something first," John stopped and looked worryingly at James.<br>"What is it?" John asked. James looked away and blushed.  
>"Well… I've never had many friends because… because…"<br>"Because what? You can tell me."  
>"Because I'm gay," James stated sharply. He winced away from John, seeming defensive. It was as if he expected John to hit him. John chuckled lightly, and it eventually grew into a loud laugh.<br>"That's it?" he laughed. James looked at him quizzically, "that's all you wanted to tell me? Mate, I don't care. You're a nice guy, it doesn't matter to me who or what you're interested in, you're nice and that's all that matters."  
>"Really? You really don't mind?"<br>"No, James," smiled John as he wrapped a friendly arm around James and patted his shoulder, "no it doesn't."  
>"Please," grinned James, "call me Jim. Jim Moriarty."<p>

**Gah, I'm so sorry. If you've looked on my profile, you'll have seen why I can review heaps but not upload. I planned on getting this and the second chapter of LG done and uploaded last week but every time I wanted to either no computers were available or one of my friends joined me and I really don't like people watching me write. My mind basically screams "DON'T JUDGE ME! ;A;" So yeah… well by the time I've uploaded this I'll have either finished or nearly finished the next chapter. I really had planned this to be longer as well, but I'm so restricted D:  
>If I had my computer all the time, I'd reply to each of your reviews and maybe even put the reply up on the chapter, but as I do not, I just have to thank all you lovely people for reading, reviewing and favouriting! Nyan cats to all of you ^3^<br>Stick with me and I'll try for you!  
>~The Science Of Seduction~<br>SH**


	7. Chapter 7

"Three…" Sherlock mumbled as the senior football team ran across the field. He sat on a cold stone step at the back of the school, the field in between the forest and the school. One of the larger boys booted the football as it landed in the middle of the field.  
>"Two…" he mumbled again, glancing at the jar he'd placed next to himself and then back at the field. The ball was booted again and landed with a thud that Sherlock could hear from where he was sitting.<br>"One…" and with that final count, the ball was once again booted and as it flew through the air it exploded, coating the footballers with a bright, pink, sticky substance that Sherlock had created during his free time over the weekend. Sherlock looked at the jar next to him.  
>"Did you see that, John?" he mumbled expressionlessly. His eyes fell in sadness and he pulled the jar closer to him, "why aren't I enjoying it, John?" he sighed. <em>What's wrong with me?<em>

"Holmes," called a teacher as Sherlock walked down the hall of lockers. He turned quickly and saw a chubby math teacher struggling to catch up with him. Once he did, he panted, the blood rushing to his face. Sherlock looked at him with a cold stare as the teacher brandished a slightly crumpled envelope, "your locker key and timetable," Sherlock took the letter and stuffed it into his bag.  
>"Anything else, Mr Conan?" he asked with a light sigh.<br>"Yeah, the headmaster said if you skip any more assemblies you'll have detention," Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued walking down the hall. He quickly reached into his bag and pulled out his locker key. _221B,_ he read, relieved that it was at the other end of the school and away from most of the idiots. He checked his timetable as he reached his locker. He placed his jar inside the locker along with several other belongings he didn't need until later and trudged off towards biology, fully aware that he was going to be exactly twenty-one minutes and fifty-three seconds late for.

"So what subjects do you have besides biology?" Jim asked as he and John sat together in the biology room. The seats in the room tapered up towards the back like a small lecture theatre, and there was a large screen projector which was used for dissections so everyone could see.  
>"Uh," John started, "chemistry, Japanese and French. And an extra curricular anatomy course."<br>"Oh? Want to be an international doctor?" Jim smiled.  
>"No, just a normal doctor. Although, I've always wanted to travel overseas so not only will speaking the language help, but I'll be able to help out if there's an emergency."<br>"Good point. I'm sure you'll be a great doctor."  
>"Thanks. So what subjects do you have?"<br>"The same as you, actually. Except I have an extra course in criminology."  
>"So… detective?" John guessed.<br>"Something like that," Jim smiled.  
>"Hey! You two up the back! Save the chit-chat until <em>after <em>class!" the teacher snapped. Both John and Jim turned their attention to the front and copied down the notes on the board.  
>After a while, the door suddenly opened. The whole of the class looked up to find a young boy with a dark mop of hair standing in the doorway. The biology teacher snapped his head in his direction, his face burning red.<br>"Holmes!" he yelled, "twenty minutes late!"  
>"Twenty-one minutes and fifty-three seconds," he corrected. The chalk snapped in the teacher's hand and Sherlock took a seat at the front. Jim tapped John on the shoulder and leaned in to whisper in his ear.<br>"That the guy you were talking about before?"  
>"Yeah," replied John, "he caught the same bus as me this morning, that's how I ended up following him."<br>"He's a bit odd today," Jim pondered loudly.  
>"What do you mean? He's not always like that?"<br>"No, he-"  
>"SILENCE!" the teacher bellowed. They obeyed, but still chuckled as Sherlock pointed out every mistake the teacher made throughout the lesson.<p>

"Sherlock!" Jim called as he and John approached the boy.  
>"Moriarty," he responded, unmoving except for his head, which he turned to look at them.<br>"I keep telling you, call me 'Jim'," he smiled, "or at least 'James'"  
>"What do you want, Moriarty?"<br>"Well if you're going to be blunt, so will I," he pulled John in front of him, "I want you to meet-"  
>"I've already met him."<br>"Yes, well, it's really funny because-"  
>"I don't care. Anything else?" Sherlock sighed. Jim scowled at him and pulled John back behind him.<br>"Can't you be nice? He hasn't done anything to hurt you and he just wants to say 'hi' and be friends!" Jim shouted at him. Sherlock leaned around to look at John.  
>"Let's hear it," he droned.<br>"What?" John asked confusedly.  
>"You want to say 'hi', so let's hear it."<br>"Oh, right. Hi… Sherlock."  
>"Hello," Sherlock leaned back to Jim, "see? We're friends now. Happy?"<br>"Thank you," Jim smiled at sat next to Sherlock. They engaged in a complicated conversation that completely passed over John's head. He stood awkwardly and watched them both. Jim looked up at him, "you can talk, you know."  
>"Go ahead," Sherlock agreed emotionlessly.<br>"Um… so, Sherlock… do you-" Jim cut John off by standing and turning him away from Sherlock.  
>"I forgot to tell you, don't ask about his family. Just don't, okay?"<br>"O-okay," Jim let him go and he turned back to Sherlock. A question suddenly came to him, "Sherlock, what were you doing in my house during the holidays?"  
>"What?" he scowled.<br>"Well, it wasn't my house at the time, but you slipped off the windowsill and fell into the snow."  
>"How do you know that?" he growled. John adopted a confused look again.<br>"I was there."  
>"Ah," Sherlock looked away from him. He didn't speak again until the end of lunch when they separated to their extra subjects.<p>

John wandered down an unfamiliar hall, trying to find his way around the school. He passed a door and suddenly heard a strange mechanical sound. He reversed and peered into the room. He found Sherlock hunched over a machine and grunting every few seconds when it stopped.  
>"What are you doing?" the noise stopped again and Sherlock whipped around to face him. John had clearly spooked him, he could tell by the widening of his eyes and the light hitch in his breath. John smiled at him and leaned to see what he was doing, seeing as the boy was refusing to answer him. He furrowed his brow and stepped closer to get a better look. Sherlock opened his mouth in protest, but John cut him off before he could speak.<br>"Are you… sewing?" John asked. Sherlock hunched over the sewing machine, trying to hide it from John.  
>"N-no!" he blushed.<br>"I'm just asking! I don't mind if you are, though," John shrugged. Sherlock darted his eyes around the room and huddled closer to the machine.  
>"It's just…" he mumbled into his arm, "hemming…"<br>"Just what?"  
>"Hemming… my coat's too short so I'm fixing the hem so it'll fit better," John smiled at Sherlock's embarrassment, it was the most emotional he had been all day. Sherlock stood and fiddled with the machine.<br>"You can keep going, I don't mind."  
>"I'm finished," he stated as he whipped the coat over him. It certainly seemed to fit better than it had earlier, and as Sherlock awkwardly stood before him, John pulled a stray thread of the front of the coat. Sherlock watched the thread float to the floor and then met his eyes with John's. John noted that his eyes seemed to light up with a sort of… warmth.<br>"Thank you," Sherlock glanced up and down John before speaking, "Watson."  
>"Watson?" John chuckled, "Watson's my last name. My first name is John," Sherlock's eyes narrowed and lost their warmth, returning to a stare similar to the one he originally saw, except harsher. He pushed past John, his coat whipping behind him with a quiet, yet angry 'get out of my way' hissed at him, "Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?" Sherlock spun around and glared at John. A tear track shone on his cheek, a small tear falling from his jaw and softly hitting the floor.<br>"Don't ever talk to me again," he growled, "I don't want to hear you, I don't want to see you, I don't want anything to do with you! Leave me alone!" and with that, he slammed the door shut, leaving John in the room, staring confusedly at the door.  
><em>What's wrong with me?<br>_ *~*  
><strong>Chapter updates will be limited from here on in. Details on my profile :3<br>Thank you all reviewers/alerters!  
>SH<strong>_  
><em>


	8. Chapter 8

"Sherlock!" Sherlock ignored the call and kept walking through the deserted hallway. He heard the running footsteps of familiar feet. Jim caught up to him and Sherlock gave a quick glance at the boy. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and panted.  
>"Sherlock, what's up with you?" Jim wheezed. Sherlock frowned, baring his teeth before grabbing Jim and pushing him up against the wall. Jim looked at him in surprise and let out a shuddering breath.<br>"What I do is of no concern to you, Moriarty," he growled, pushing Jim further against the wall.  
>"Sh-Sherlock," he groaned, "P-put me down," Sherlock searched his face and scowled at him.<br>"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"  
>"No, no…"<br>"Don't lie to me!" Sherlock snapped. Jim let out a light moan and squirmed slightly under Sherlock's grip. He looked at Sherlock through half-closed eyelids and chuckled.  
>"I know you are too, Sherlock," he whispered, hot breath drifting around the partially exposed skin on Sherlock's neck. He reached a hand up and stroked Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock screwed his face up in disgust and threw Jim to the floor. Jim pushed himself up to a seated position and wiped away the trickle of blood that dripped from his mouth. He smiled at the crimson blot on the back of his hand.<br>"Mmm… you're so _rough_, Sherlock," he groaned as he licked the blood off his hand. Sherlock kicked him in his side and Jim toppled over again.  
>"You and your new bitch can stay away from me," he spat. Jim chuckled on the floor as he reached out and stroked Sherlock's leg. Sherlock pulled it away and sharply kicked him in the side again, "Don't touch me, you sick fuck!" Sherlock shouted as he walked away. Jim lay on the floor, lovingly circling the area of impact with his fingers and giggling to himself.<p>

John wandered listlessly into the hall, replaying the event that had just taken place over and over in his head. It didn't make sense to him; he couldn't identify a problem in their conversation. He suddenly spotted Jim curled up against the wall and rushed over to him.  
>"Jesus! Jim, are you alright?" he scanned his body for signs of anything that was broken or bleeding. He found nothing except for the blood coming from his mouth and helped him to his feet.<br>"I'm fine, I'm fine," Jim straightened up his uniform and smiled at John. John gave him an awkward smile in return and helped him towards the nurse's office.  
>"What happened?" John asked as the nurse finished checking his injuries.<br>"Nothing, just a few bullies. Nothing I can't handle," John looked at him worryingly. Jim smiled again and patted John on the shoulder, "I'm fine, John, really. Stop fussing. The nurse said I have some bruises on my side and that's it," John sighed at Jim's words, but was still worried that he was so calm about what happened to him, "Now, if you don't mind, we need to be in French right now."  
>"Right," agreed John, "let's go then."<p>

"Are you sure you're alright?" John asked as they sat down together at lunch. Jim stared distantly as he told John he was as fine as he was an hour ago. John followed his gaze and saw Jim was staring at Sherlock. He waved his hand in front of Jim's face and called to him. Jim snapped back to meet John's gaze and blushed.  
>"Jim… do you… do you like Sherlock?" John asked as politely as he possibly could.<br>"What? Oh. No, no, I was just… reminiscing," he trailed, rubbing his side lightly.

Sherlock skipped the last lesson of the day. He tried to get his head around everything but it just felt so clogged. He'd had half the pack of cigarettes throughout the day and finished the other half throughout the past half hour. He sucked on the butt of his last one, trying to find clarity in his mind through the nicotine. It wasn't working.  
>"Stronger," he mumbled to himself, "I need something stronger," he held his jar tightly against himself as he drowned in the sea of his clogging thoughts.<br>He gathered himself as he heard other students leaving for the buses and headed that way also. He found the small bus that took him to his street and frowned at the sight of John already on board. John was seated at the front, so Sherlock huddled into the back, the afternoon sun shining everywhere but his corner seat.

As Sherlock entered the manor, he knew there was going to be no-one there. He suspected his brother was at _Lestrade's _house, his father at the local pub and his mother still missing. It was the perfect opportunity to find what he was looking for.  
>Of course he had read up on the dangers of using it, and he flicked through this information as he reached into the very back of his father's closet, looking for that dusty shoebox he had seen a few years back. <em>Hallucinations, <em>he thought, _that's the only thing that worries me. The rest is fine. It will clear my head, I will be fine. _He found the shoebox caked in a layer of dust, unused for seemingly decades. He lifted the dirty lid and found a vial along with several unused needles. He pulled one out and filled it with the liquid from the vial.  
><em>Cocaine. It will help me. I don't care about the pain of the needle or any other weird side effects. Just the hallucinations.<em>  
>He replaced the lid on the box and returned to his room. His gaze shifted between the needle and his arm. When they finally met, he cried out from the pain, but it quickly subsided as he felt the effects of the drug. Everything was so clear. He felt happy, euphoric even. He started to sort through his thought processes when he suddenly heard a familiar sound. He turned to find John sitting on his bed, his golden fur shimmering in the evening sun, his tail wagging happily and his big, blue eyes dancing with happiness. A tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek as he held his dog tightly in his arms.<br>"John," he whispered, "I thought I'd lost you," John barked happily as he jumped off the bed and ran down the stairs. Sherlock followed after him, smiling for the first time since Christmas. He ran out the door with John and followed him around the street. John ran around him and Sherlock got so dizzy he fell into the snow. John jumped on top of him and licked at his face.  
>"John! John, stop," he laughed, pushing lightly at the dog. John settled in the snow next to him and Sherlock patted his head.<br>"I love you, John. Don't ever leave me," he whispered, smiling as his eyelids grew heavy and finally closed.  
>*~*<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

"What the…?" John mumbled to himself as his gaze shifted from the book in his hands to the street outside his window. He saw Sherlock lying in the snow, stroking the air next to him. John returned to his book, managing a full five seconds of silence before he heard the sound of snow crunching beneath his window.  
>"John! John! Jooooohn, where are yoooooou?" he heard Sherlock call. John poked his head out the window to find Sherlock crawling around in the snow.<br>"Sherlock, are you okay?" John shouted from his window. Sherlock looked up at him with a massive grin on his face. John was worried. _Very _worried.  
>"John! There you are! Come here, my adorable puppy!" Sherlock stretched his arms out as if he were planning to catch him. He probably was.<br>"What the hell? What did you just call me?"  
>"Oh, if you're going to growl at me like that, I'll have to come to <em>you!<em>" Sherlock almost sang his words as he moved to the side of the house. John heard the shuffle of the ivy at the side of his house.  
><em>Oh my God, <em>John thought, _what is he doing? What the hell is going on?  
><em>"John," whispered Sherlock, "Jooooohn," John looked up and saw Sherlock peeking over the rooftop. John stared at him, mouth agape, as the head disappeared and was replaced by the boy's legs. John stumbled backwards, trying to avoid the swinging legs as they lowered themselves onto John's windowsill. Sherlock perched on the frozen sill like a vulture, a wry grin covering his face. John's heart was racing in fear and he cried out as Sherlock leapt at him. John squirmed under the weight of him and yelled at him to get off. Eventually, he pushed him off, finding that Sherlock was lying unconscious on the floor.  
>"What… the hell," John panted, "is going on?" he sat back in his chair, continuously glancing at the unconscious figure on the floor. Eventually, he picked Sherlock up (with great difficulty) and moved him to his bed.<p>

When Sherlock woke, his head was aching and outside the window was dark. He heard shuffling near him and realised that he was in an unfamiliar bed. He shot up and surveyed the room. John was still sitting in the chair and had stiffened at Sherlock's sudden waking. They looked at each other, Sherlock with confusion and John with fear.  
>"Sh-Sherlock?" John whimpered. Sherlock snarled at him and lifted himself out of the bed painfully. His muscles were sore, and therefore moving was a difficulty.<br>"Sherlock… It's me, John. Are you alright?" John asked, moving from the chair.  
>"John," Sherlock wheezed, realising his throat was dry. He rubbed it aimlessly and stumbled, supporting himself on the head of the bed. He suddenly realised what had happened to him.<br>"Are you alright?" John repeated, walking slowly towards him.  
>"Hallucinations…" Sherlock mumbled. <em>He was a hallucination…<em> a tear started to form in his eye. John saw his eyes water and raised his hand to place it on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock batted it away and glared at him, "don't touch me," he hissed, storming out of John's room. John was surprised as he managed to find his way out of the house. He sat on his chair and watched as Sherlock practically ran back to the manor, rubbing his hand as the dark figure disappeared behind the door.

"Morning, Jim!" John smiled as he entered the school grounds. Jim turned to face John, stopping so he could catch up.  
>"Hi!" he replied cheerily, "ready for another day of school?"<br>"After what happened yesterday, I'm ready for anything," John sighed. Jim inquired about the problem and John relayed the events to him. Jim looked thoughtfully into the distance before turning back to him.  
>"That's Sherlock all right," he lied, "he's not quite there. Sometimes he just… does stuff like that. Think nothing of it, alright?"<br>"Alright," agreed John warily. Jim grinned and led John to the lockers. John pulled out his books for the coming lessons and talked to Jim about nothing in particular.  
>"Shit," mumbled Jim, "Uh, John?"<br>"Yeah?" John looked at Jim's face, a look of terror plastered across it, "Jim, what's up?"  
>"I have to go find something. It's really important. Do you mind telling the teacher I'll be a little late?"<br>"Of course I'll do that for you," John said as he closed his locker door, "I hope you find it," he smiled as he walked off to class. Jim closed his locker as well, turning in the other direction in search for Sherlock.

"Are you going to make this a habit?" Jim asked as he found Sherlock leaning against one of the buttresses at the back of the school. Sherlock scowled at him and Jim smiled.  
>"I thought I told you to stay away from me. And it's none of your business whether I skip classes or not," he growled. Jim walked closer to Sherlock and Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.<br>"I'm not talking about the classes," Jim whispered in his ear. Sherlock pushed him off, grabbing his bag as he started to walk off, "I can help you," Jim called. Sherlock whipped around and snarled at Jim, the Irish boy still standing with that grin plastered on his face.  
>"How the <em>hell<em> is someone like you meant to help me?" he snapped. Jim reached into his bag and pulled out a small metal box, offering it to Sherlock. Sherlock snatched if off him, glancing suspiciously at Jim as he opened the lid. Inside the metal box was a small brown bottle and a medical needle.  
>"Is this-?" Sherlock started.<br>"Yes. John told me about your activities yesterday. All the symptoms pointed to this," Sherlock picked up the small bottle as Jim spoke, "it was cocaine, yes?"  
>"How did you get this?"<br>"I have my ways, Sherlock. All you need to know is that I will get you whatever you need to feel better," Sherlock snapped the lid shut, leaving Jim smiling wider than was humanely possible as he took off with Jim's supply of drugs.  
><em>I wish there was some other way, <em>Jim thought, _some other way to make you mine.  
><em>"Ah, well. As long as I get him in the end," he smiled to himself.  
>*~*<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock pushed his fingers through the golden hair. It was real, he could feel it. It had to be real. Deep blue eyes stared back at him. Sherlock leaned in and pressed his nose against John's. His eyebrow twitched in surprise and he gave a small whimper. Sherlock smiled and continued to stroke his head.  
>"I love you, John," he whispered as he lay down next to him and closed his eyes.<p>

Jim scowled as he stepped out into the courtyard. He could clearly see John sitting on the top of the table with his legs placed on the bench underneath, as was his usual fashion, but the look of bewilderment and the inability to eat the rest of his sandwich was becoming more evident as he walked towards him. As Jim's fancy shoes clicked lightly but audibly on the ground underneath him, John looked up from his legs and stared at Jim, his face still plastered with confusion.  
>"Jim! Thank <em>God!"<em> he whispered harshly, pointing at his legs, "how do I get rid of him?"  
>Jim looked at where he was pointing and scowled again. Sherlock was sleeping on John's lap, his arms folded under his chin.<br>"What happened?" Jim asked, eyes still not moving from Sherlock.  
>"I… I was just about to eat," he started, lifting his sandwich up as if to prove his point, "and he suddenly appears out of nowhere, straddles the bench and goes to sleep on my leg!"<br>Jim hummed in contemplation. He sat on the bench with his back to John's legs and rested his head on John's lap.  
>"You're quite comfortable, you know," Jim commented. John's face flushed a light crimson.<br>"I don't care if I'm comfortable! I'm feeling very _un_comfortable right now!" he threw his hands into the air, and as he did so a piece of tomato flung out and landed nearby. Jim chuckled and Sherlock stirred in his sleep. John sighed and ate his sandwich in silence, ignoring the two teenagers that were leaning against him.

"It's not funny," stated John as he walked off to the buses. Jim giggled again and shot a tiny unnoticeable glance at the cloaked figure that glided past John and him. John continued to scowl and shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. Jim giggled again.  
>"But you're <em>so comfortable<em>," he smiled. John glared at him from the side of his eye and mumbled an angry farewell as he boarded his bus.  
>The bus trip was silent as always, with the boys seated on opposite sides of the vehicle, looking out of their respective windows. John spared a glance or two at the reflection of Sherlock in the window, but apart from that he stared out the window and absent-mindedly took in the scenery.<br>Upon their arrival to the street and the expected departure from the bus, Sherlock turned swiftly towards his house and in doing so, dislodged a sheet of paper that was loosely poking out of his pocket. It fluttered across the empty street, floating in front of John's small strides. It landed in the gutter and John salvaged it and took it inside with him. Sherlock was in too much of a hurry to notice the sheet had wandered away from his pocket. He had to get inside before his father returned.

Sherlock entered the house and was immediately met by the sight of his father lying unconscious on the kitchen table. Sherlock's stomach rumbled lightly and reminded him that it had been at least a week since he had last eaten. He deposited his bags near the staircase and stripped his feet of his shoes and socks. He then padded lightly into the kitchen, in desperate hope that there was something to eat, no matter how small. He opened the cupboard furthest away from the sleeping form, deciding that he'd work his way towards the table until he found some trace of food. The unfortunate thing about the cupboard doors is they had a tendency to make a whining noise as they opened and closed. Sherlock noticed that the opening whine was more upbeat than the closing one, as though they were happy you were using them, and sad as you closed them and let them be.  
><em>Squeak!<br>__**Whiskey,**_ Sherlock thought to himself, making a mental note of the items in each cupboard.  
><em>Squeeeak...<br>Pad, pad, pad.  
>Squeak!<br>__**More Whiskey...  
><strong>__Squeeeak...  
>Pad, pad, pad.<br>Squeak!  
><em>_**Daddy Long Legs...  
><strong>__Squeeeak...  
>Pad, pad, pad.<br>Squeak!  
><em>_**Ah! Cereal! **_Sherlock thought, realising that it was probably stale. He didn't mind, as long as it was food. He reached out to grab the box, and as he lifted it his brain made a quick deduction. Cereal is noisy. _Very _noisy. Every movement he made with the half empty box brought an onslaught of rustling. He quietly padded over to the fridge to find half a litre of milk that was due to go off tomorrow. He grabbed that and a spoon from the dishrack that was full of forgotten food utensils and slowly made his way upstairs. He was halfway to the top when one of the floorboards emitted a loud groan, which in turn made Sherlock's father groan into consciousness.  
><em>Shit.<em>  
>He silently ran the rest of the way to his room, locking and barricading the door and slipping under his bed. His foot brushed a small pile of John's fur that had collected in the corner of the floor under his bed, and he let out a small, pained whimper of sadness. He groped his pocket to try and find the story he read to John before he passed, and became even more angry and sad when he found it was missing. He tried to remember it, but he couldn't get past the first part.<br>*~*_  
>"Tell me how much you love me," said the woman to her lover.<br>"I'm afraid I can't," he responded woefully. The woman smiled.  
>"Can you show me?" she asked, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes.<br>"There's only one way I can," he stated, turning and walking out of the house.  
><em>*~*  
><strong>AN  
>I'm sooooooo sorry. I've only just managed to finish the most important assignment for school, and I've got a lot of other things on my plate right now. This update is probably the most disappointing because it's so very, <strong>_**very **_**late, but as you read I'm probably either working on the next chapter or uploading it. Also I've got Lyrical Genius to update as well as a new fic for OperaGoose's "Benedict's Birthday Bash!" thing she's got going on. I signed up twice (once for Benedict, another for the awesome picture OperaGoose made :D) so I'm doing the aforementioned fic **_**and **_**some artwork! (Which you would be able to find on my DeviantArt, details at the bottom of my profile ;3) The story at the end of this fic I just made up myself because I cbf researching a fancy story to suit the mood I've got going on here.  
>Wow, this AN is probably going to be longer than the actual story! ."  
>I'll be quiet now.<br>Oh! But first, A SUPERMEGAAWESOME glomp for everyone that's alerted/reviewed so far, it makes me so happy!  
>And I've decided that in my new fic I will respond to each and every review in the ANs! I really want to respond to all of you in every story, but for now just appreciate that I appreciate you all!  
>Thanks for being so patient with me~<br>SH**


	11. Chapter 11

**Watch out. Language about.  
><strong> *~*  
>Jim brushed off a bit of snow that had fallen on his suit as he stood on the porch. He pressed the button for the door bell and waited patiently with a smile plastered on his face. He heard footsteps from within and flinched inwardly when the door was pulled open.<br>"What the fuck do you want?" grumbled the obviously hungover adult.  
>"Mister Holmes?" Jim asked, still smiling.<br>"Yeah?"  
>"Holmes as in the father of Sherlock?"<br>"How many fucking Holmes' do you think live around here, dickhead?"  
>"Just making sure, sir. Do you mind if I see Sherlock?"<br>"Yes, I do mind. Piss off," he went so slam the door but Jim stopped it with his hand, the Holmes father sneering at him with reddened eyes.

"Sir, it's rather important that I see Sherlock."  
>"It's rather important that you get the fuck away from my house!" Jim disobeyed and stepped into the house. The Holmes father snarled at him and punched Jim in the face. Jim fell to his knees and clutched at his face, feeling the blood seep out of his nose and mouth. He smiled and wiped the crimson mess from his face, standing to smirk at the man before him.<br>"Not the most passionate one I've felt, but it's pretty close," he stated dismissively, "now, I want to see your son," Jim dusted off his suit and saw that the Holmes father had raised his fist and was about to strike again. Jim pulled a small firearm out of his suit and pointed it at the man, "please."  
>The hungover man lowered his fist and growled at Jim.<br>"He's not here."  
>"Excuse me?" Jim asked, his calm face faltering for an unnoticed moment, "he's not here?"<br>"No. I've searched all over the house for the little bastard and he's nowhere to be found. Now piss off!"  
>"As you wish," Jim smiled. He turned and started to walk out the door, stopping when he reached the frame. He tilted his head towards the man still inside of the house and ceased his smiling, "I know what you do to him, by the way. I don't think you're a very fitting father, Mister Holmes."<br>"What's it to you?" he snarled at Jim. Jim turned to face the man once more, pulling a small device out of his coat pocket.  
>"Everything," he said simply, pushing the button and walking out of the house. As the door closed, clicks were heard all over the house. Sherlock's father went to open the door, finding that it had been locked. He tested the nearby windows. Locked. Every exit was locked. He was about to wonder why when the middle of the house was suddenly consumed in a pillar of flame.<p>

John could smell it before he saw it. _Smoke. And lots of it, _he thought. He got up from his bed and looked out the window, finding that the source of the smoke was the manor across the road. John's eyes widened with both surprise and panic as he rushed to the nearest phone and dialled for emergency services. He ran out to his porch to try and see if anyone was still inside. There was no car in the driveway and he couldn't see anything but smoke in the windows. Smoke and...  
>"No," John whispered as he saw a glass jar on the second floor windowsill, "Sherlock."<br>He ran to the house and immediately felt the heat radiating from behind the front door. He decided against opening it, as it seemed that the majority of the fire was on the ground floor. He quickly looked around and saw a route that would lead him up to the window. He assumed Sherlock used it to leave the house without permission. He climbed the front of the house with some difficulty, finding that the route was obviously suited for Sherlock's tall and agile body. Peering into the window, he found that the room was empty. _No, it can't be empty. He always has his jar with him. He has to be-  
><em>"Sherlock!" he cried as suddenly the dark mop of hair poked out from under the bed. John pulled at the window, only to find that it had been locked. He caught a glimpse of the flickering flame that was making its way towards the room. John pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around his hand, dismissing the sudden chill that attacked his bare torso. He ducked his head and clung to the windowsill with his right hand as he used his left to punch in the window. He pushed as many shards of glass in as possible before entering the room. He sudden burst of air sent the fire raging into the room, causing thick smoke to engulf John. He reached under the bed and dragged at Sherlock's unmoving body. He shook his shoulder and called out to him, checking to see if the boy was still alive.  
>"John," he mumbled, before going into a coughing fit.<br>"I'm here, Sherlock. I'm going to get you out."  
>"Jar," he wheezed, eyes fluttering open for a split second before he went limp in John's arms. John lifted up the surprisingly heavy boy and draped him over his shoulder. He grabbed the jar that was still sitting on the windowsill and dropped it into the slowly melting snow below. As he climbed back down the house, he heard sirens in the distance. When they hit the ground, John picked up the jar he had dropped earlier and took Sherlock to the end of the manor's driveway. He laid him down in the snow and tried to shake him into consciousness. He checked for a pulse and any signs of burning. His pulse was steady and it looked like he was fine. <em>He might have a little bit of smoke inhalation, though. <em>At that moment, Sherlock coughed and fluttered his eyelids again. The fire brigade finally pulled up along with the ambulance. They immediately set off to extinguish the fire, leaving the captain of the brigade and the ambulance officers to speak with John.  
>"Are you the boy that called about the fire?" the captain asked him. John nodded, cradling Sherlock's head in his arms, "you did the right thing, son. You should be proud of yourself. And although it was reckless and you could have injured yourself, you just saved this young man's life. Well done."<br>John nodded again, helping the ambulance to lift Sherlock onto a stretcher. The captain asked John if he knew whether anyone was still in the house.  
>"No there isn't," came a voice from behind them. John turned to see a young man in a suit with an umbrella in his hand staring solemnly towards the manor, "there's nothing important left in that house, Captain."<p>

**Sorry, another short one. I'm really sorry this wasn't up sooner, but since my last upload I've had a terrible cold. I couldn't sit up for long periods of time and I had a migraine all day yesterday. I'll try and sort out next chapter ASAP, but in the meantime I'm preparing for an event I signed up for. Submissions are due in two days so I've been trying to multitask all my fics :3  
>Thanks for being so very patient with me. And my cold is gone, I feel soooo much better now!<br>SH**


	12. Chapter 12

"John," moaned Sherlock as he tossed on the hospital bed in his sleep. John was sitting next to the bed with Constable Lestrade watching Sherlock nervously from the corner of the room.  
>"How long has he been doing that?" Lestrade asked. John tilted his head as he watched Sherlock tossing and gave him a contemplative look.<br>"Since he got here. So about three, four hours," John replied. Lestrade made a light "oh" before flipping through his note pad. John looked back at Sherlock as he emitted another moan of his name, scrunching his face up at the unconscious boy, "do you think he's calling for _me_?"  
>"It's possible. Do you know any other Johns he's associated with?"<br>"No, but it just seems a bit strange. He never seemed to like me that much. Not since…"  
>"Since when?"<br>"Well, basically as soon as I introduced myself properly. He just… hated me," John finished, dropping his face and fiddling with his fingers.  
>"I don't think it's you," Lestrade suggested, "maybe he knew a John before you and that John hurt him somehow. Maybe-"<br>"Sherlock!" cried a voice from the doorway. Lestrade and John turned to find Jim staring mournfully at Sherlock with his hands linked together in front of his chest. He walked slowly towards the bed before flinging his arms out dramatically and embracing the sleeping boy. John and Lestrade exchanged confused looks as Jim clutched Sherlock tightly. Sherlock squirmed in his grip and cried out for John. Jim shot John a dirty look that John only just caught before returning his attention back to the bed.  
>"The jar," Jim whispered.<br>"What?" Lestrade asked, taking a step forward so he could hear better.  
>"The jar. Sherlock's jar. Where is it?"<br>"I don't-"  
>"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled as he sat up abruptly. His confused eyes travelled around the room before settling on Lestrade, "you. Why are you here?"<br>"Sherlock," called Jim, stroking his arm soothingly. Sherlock flicked his eyes over to him and pulled his arm away with a scowl. He looked at all the occupants of the room, eyes flashing with anger and his scowl carved onto his face.  
>"What are <em>all<em> of you doing here? I don't want you here! Out!" he pointed dramatically out the doorway. Lestrade nodded slightly and turned out of the room, followed by a disheartened Jim and finally, John. As John was about to leave, however, he was blocked by a suited man holding an umbrella. The man smiled at John and pulled out a small diary.  
>"John Watson?" he asked, frowning slightly at the book.<br>"Yes, that's me," he replied cautiously.  
>"Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself, "I'd like to thank you for saving my little brother."<br>"Excuse me?" came Sherlock's sharp voice from the bed. Mycroft looked up from John, focusing his attention on Sherlock, who was sitting up against the head of the bed with his arms folded.  
>"I'm thanking him, Sherlock. Surely you've heard of this social convention?"<br>"Of course I've heard of it! I want to know why you're thanking him."  
>"As I said, he rescued you from the building. If he hadn't, you'd be dead."<br>"I wouldn't have minded."  
>"Sherlock!" John finally snapped, turning to his school colleague, "for God's sake! You don't give a shit about anyone else but yourself, do you? Why don't you get off your high-fucking-horse and step into my shoes? <em>You <em>may not have minded, but _I _would have! How can you even _think _about tossing your life away like that?"  
>"John," Sherlock murmured, "come here."<br>John moved hesitantly towards the bed, standing before the hospitalised boy.  
>"Closer," John did as he as told and leaned towards Sherlock a little, "closer," he growled. John shivered at the deep rumbling of Sherlock's voice and leaned in so there were barely centimetres between them. Sherlock slowly raised his hand and slapped John across the face.<p>

**A/N**  
><strong>I haven't forgotten this!<br>True, it has been a good few months. But I'm back for the holidays (Kinda sorta maybe I'll try...)  
>And to celebrate- here's a disgustingly short chapter! YAY!<br>But in all seriousness I'm working on 13 RIGHT NOW. Expect it within the next day.  
>Also, I'm going to try to respond to reviews from now on. I don't expect many, but if you really want to, you can. I don't mind either way.<br>It's good to be back c:  
>SH<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

John rode the bus in silence, absently running his hand across his slightly bruised cheek as he stared out the window. He glanced over to he empty seat that Sherlock usually occupied and felt his chest sink a little at his absence. He trudged mindlessly through the school grounds, broken from his reverie as Jim flagged him down. "Johnny! How are you?" he greeted cheerfully. John forced a weak smile onto his face and tossed a casual 'fine' back at him. They wandered through the expansive hallways and off to their class. *~* Nothing about the day stayed with John. It seemed so surreal, like no-one even cared that Sherlock's house had burnt to the ground and his family were unaccounted for. Maybe no-one _did_ care except him. There were a few times in the day when he wondered whether any of it had happened at all. As he reached his own home, the pile of ashen remains across the street confirmed that it indeed had happened. His thoughts crossed to Sherlock for about the tenth time that day. What was Sherlock going to do now? Where was he going to live? How was he going to eat? Would he still go to school? "Will I ever see him again?" John murmured, suddenly taken aback by his thoughts. He scowled internally at himself, "why should I care? It's not like he actually cares about _me_..." he trailed, brushing his fingers across his cheek again before shaking his head and wandering into his house. *~* Jim strolled casually through the clean white hallways, looking for his newly hospitalised client of interest. He grinned when he saw the sleepy mop of hair poking out from under the covers of the hospital bed and entered the room enthusiastically. "Sherlock!" he called, propping himself on a chair next to the bed. Sherlock stirred from his sleep and glared at Jim with contempt, "I have some amazing news for you!"  
>"I highly doubt that any news that you have to give me is neither amazing nor pleasant in the least," he scowled. Jim pouted, making the frown lines on Sherlock's face deepen.<br>"I've got something for you," Jim teased, reaching a hand into his blazer pocket and brandishing a needle.  
>"Moriarty!" Sherlock hissed, his intense glare intimidating Jim slightly, "I'm in <em>hospital. <em>and even if I weren't, I don't want to be dependant on taking drugs from _you._"  
>Jim gave Sherlock an exaggerated expression of pain, "Oh, Sherlock! You're breaking my heart!"<br>"Fuck off," he hissed, waving a shooing hand at Jim. Jim chuckled and caught the hand, planting a cheeky kiss on the top of it. Sherlock scowled and pulled away before punching him in the face. Jim fell off the chair and collapsed on the ground, his psychopathic grin playing on his lips.  
>"Oh, yes," he groaned, "that was a good punch. Mmm..."<br>"You're sick!" Sherlock spat, disgusted by the masochist that kneeled on the floor next to his bed.  
>"I'm not the one in hospital," he quipped, standing and grinning evilly at Sherlock. He climbed onto the bed, pinning down Sherlock's suddenly flailing form and leaning his head in towards the boy, "you know, I was quite upset when I found out you'd hurt Johnny boy. I don't like having competition."<br>"Get the fuck off me!"  
>"I'm not worried though. Once you're living with me, I'll make sure you don't see him or any other boy ever again."<br>"You think I _care _about him?"  
>"You care enough to <em>touch <em>him! Nobody gets to touch you but _me!_ You're _mine, _Sherlock!" Jim screamed, fury running across all his features. Sherlock was genuinely scared, the boy pinning him down was truly insane.  
>"I'm not living with you. No way in hell," Sherlock stated, hiding his fear.<br>"You'll do whatever the fuck I want," Jim hissed, stabbing the needle into Sherlock and pressing the plunger, "or your house won't be the only thing I burn this week."

"Hey Jim," John started. It had been a week since the fire, and John was concerned for, "have you seen Sherlock? Apparently the hospital released him a couple of days ago..."  
>"Oh, yeah," Jim smiled, "he's living with me."<br>"Really?" John cleared his throat, trying to hide the excitement behind his words. Jim looked at him suspiciously, "I mean... really? That's... good. Will he be coming back to school?"  
>"Not any time soon," Jim explained, "he's still recovering so it might take a few days or a few weeks. I'm not sure," he chuckled, "I'm not a doctor."<br>"Maybe I could visit him sometime?" John asked hesitantly. Jim stopped in his tracks and quickly glared at John.  
>"No," he hissed before softening his face and smiling with an eerie warmth, "I think he just really needs to rest right now."<br>He turned back and walked calmly to the classrooms. John smiled weakly and followed him down the corridor.

Upon John's return home, he pulled a phone book out of a cupboard near the kitchen and flicked through it. It wasn't that he didn't trust Jim... he just...  
>"I don't trust him..." he mumbled solemnly. He stopped when the book reached the 'M' section and ran his finger down the page. He stopped on the only entry under Moriarty and scribbled the address on a scrap of paper, rushing out of the house and down the street.<br>The air was chilly as he walked towards the town, the lack of features across the landscape meant that the wind was at its full ferocity, whipping at John's clothes and exposed skin. As he reached the centre of the small, partially derelict town, he came across a community of houses that looked particularly deserted. He checked the scrap of paper and, sure enough, one of the disgusting houses matched the address. He cautiously approached the door, noting the peeling paint and fungus that grew on the bare wood of the door. A single shutter was drawn across a patch of door just above his head. He grabbed the cold, greasy knocker and rapped on the door. The metal shutter slid across with a squeal and John jumped when intense glaring eyes met his.  
>"Yeah?" the burly owner of the eyes asked, "whaddya want?"<br>"Umm... I'm here to see Jim Moriarty. He's a... friend of mine."  
>The doorman gave a gravelly chuckle, "mate, 'e doesn't live 'ere. You must be a new guy. Come in."<br>The door unlocked and John was shown inside. It was almost as dreary as the outside of the building. John was confused by this whole ordeal, but followed the muscled doorman down the derelict hallways.  
>"So what'd 'e drag you in for? Drugs? Whores? Both?" he chuckled again, "usually I'd do a background check of all the visitors, but not very many people know about Mr. Moriarty 'imself, so I trust ya."<br>John nodded and made an absent noise of agreement. He heard distressing noises from behind most of the doors. Moans behind some, cries from another, but the ones that troubled him the most were the silent ones. The empty rooms had open doors, but the silent, closed rooms prodded at the back of his mind. What if Sherlock was in one of these rooms?  
>"Umm... perhaps you've seen another friend of mine," John asked the doorman, "he should have come in recently. He's about my age with dark, curly hair, pale skin, striking blue eyes..."<br>"Yeah, the Holmes kid. You in here for the same thing?"  
>"Uh... Yeah..."<br>"Then I'm sure he'd enjoy your company," the doorman smiled before opening a ratty door a little further down the hall and pushing John inside. The door closed with a locking click and John noticed there was no handle on the inside. He heard a whimper from behind him and saw the lanky boy curled in on himself in the corner. John rushed over to him, hovering his hands over Sherlock's trembling body. He lightly touched one of Sherlock's arms, and the boy lashed out at him. John scurried back into the opposite corner, watching the heaving boy with fear. Sherlock's pupils were dilated and he was scratching absently at his arm.  
>"Sherlock?" John called warily. Sherlock flicked his eyes up to meet him, and he stared at him with a placid look strewn across his face, "Sherlock, it's me. It's John."<br>"Jo..hn?" Sherlock droned. A single tear formed in his eye, dribbling down his cheek and hanging from his deathly pale jaw. He took a pained step forward, his feet looking heavy as he stumbled across the floor. He collapsed when he drew nearer to John, his head falling in his lap and his arms sprawling across John's folded legs. John's face darkened to a deep crimson as Sherlock stroked his legs, "you're as soft as I remember... My dear John..."  
>"Sherlock?" John called again, "Sherlock, what's wrong with you?"<br>"This is the only way I can see you. Stay with me," he mumbled. John pushed at his shoulders, but Sherlock resisted and continued to pet him. John sighed and waited for Sherlock to... to... well, stop whatever he was doing.

"Sherly!" A familiar, yet muffled, voice sang from behind the heavy door. John pushed Sherlock off him and hid under the nasty bed. God only knew what Jim would do to him if he found him in there. He watched as Jim sprang through the door and smiled at the sleeping form of Sherlock. He kicked him lightly with his foot and Sherlock roused into the waking world. Sherlock's eyes flicked to John under the bed, and he held his breath as the semi-conscious boy's pale eyes bore into his for that split second.  
>"Up," Jim commanded harshly. Sherlock obliged and wobbled on his feet in front of Jim. Jim handed over a needle and kissed Sherlock's cheek before leaving the room. John's blood boiled at the sight, though he didn't know what was more infuriating- the fact that Jim was a drug dealer, that Sherlock was an addict or that Jim had placed his disgusting lips on Sherlock.<br>But why should he care so much about the latter?  
>Sherlock slumped back on the floor and curled into a ball.<br>"You can come out now," he murmured. John crawled out from under the bed and sat near Sherlock, who was staring listlessly at the wall in front of him.  
>"Sherlock, what have you done?" John whispered, "why the drugs?"<br>"It's the only way I can see John."  
>"John?" he asked, confused. Sherlock sighed heavily and turned the needle in his hand.<br>"John was the only one who cared about me. He died last Christmas. Ever since then... everything turned to shit. Mycroft was out so often that he couldn't protect me from my father, my mother disappeared, and my house burnt down. The only one that cares about me now is Jim," Sherlock explained.  
>"Bullshit," John hissed, "Jim doesn't give a flying fuck. If he <em>really <em>cared, he'd stop you from taking these drugs. He wants you, but he doesn't care about you."  
>John grabbed the needle from Sherlock's hand, threw it on the ground and stepped on it. Sherlock continued to stare listlessly at the wall. John tugged at his arm and pulled him to his feet, settling Sherlock's weight on his shoulder. He dragged Sherlock out of the room and back down the disgusting hallway. The doorway was empty when he reached it, making John look around cautiously as he unlocked it. He helped Sherlock out the door when he suddenly heard the gravelled voice of the doorman yelling at him.<br>"Where do you think you're going?" he bellowed. John jumped in fear and hurried Sherlock down the street. He heard a click and a loud bang from behind him and suddenly a searing pain tore through his left shoulder. He cried out in pain, stumbling slightly before tugging the lucid boy through the dirty alleyways of the houses. Thankfully, the doorman hadn't chased after them, and when he finally got to the main road and flagged down a bus, he clutched at his shoulder and collapsed on the side of the road. Sherlock slowly came back to reality as he stared at the unconscious boy lying on the pavement. The bus driver had clambered out of the bus to check on him before calling the ambulance. Sherlock knelt next to John, ripping off a piece of his shirt and holding it against the wound.  
>"John... Don't leave me..." He whispered to the golden-haired boy, tears forming at his eyes, "Don't leave me again... John..."<br>*~* 


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock sat on the chair next to John's bed. Doctors came and went, mumbling nonsense that didn't register in Sherlock's mind. Everything was a blur to him. Everything except for the golden-haired saviour lying in front of him. Sherlock hadn't seen the wound, not properly. There was too much blood when he held the torn cloth to John's shoulder. He was bandaged now, and sleeping peacefully. His hair was slightly ruffled from their escape and his mouth opened slightly as he breathed deeply in his sleep. When Sherlock looked at him, he no longer saw him as the companion he once had. Although both Johns were kind and caring, when he looked at this John he saw a warrior. A soldier. A survivor. Sherlock was now drawn to him, drawn to the strength of the teenager that had saved him from the spiralling path of chaotic dependency. An addiction fuelled by the desire to see what wasn't there. His old John. The one that never made it.  
>Maybe Sherlock could start again.<br>Maybe this John won't leave him.

John roused several hours later, feeling an ache in his wounded shoulder and his head. Sherlock's dark coat shuffled in his peripheral vision and John slowly turned his head to focus on the boy.  
>"John," he whispered softly, sending a light shiver down John's spine. He didn't know he could have such a warm feeling just from hearing his name in that rumbling, baritone voice. It was... beautiful. John suddenly joined the real world and sat up in his bed swiftly, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder and flicking his eyes over Sherlock's body.<br>"Sherlock! Are you alright?" he asked, voice dripping with concern. Sherlock smiled, making John jump. It was an amazing smile, showing a little of his teeth and crinkling his eyes ever so slightly. This smile, this genuine one-of-a-kind smile was like telling John he'd just won a hundred thousand pounds. It lit him up inside, the warmth that grew from this usually blank and cold face. John wanted to reach out and trace the beautiful lines of the pale boy's angular face, keeping the feel of the porcelain skin under his fingertips mapped out in his mind.  
>"I'm not the one who was shot," Sherlock teased. John's conscious snapped back once again, and he remembered the bullet wound on his left shoulder. He clasped his shoulder gently and bowed his head away from Sherlock. He could feel the stitches underneath the bandages, coupled with the dark crimson speckles of dried blood hat had soaked into the bandage. He looked back up at Sherlock, who had abandoned his gentle smile and replaced it with a soft, mournful face, "do you mind if I...?" he gestured towards the bandage with his head. John looked between Sherlock and his shoulder before unwrapping it gently. The black stitches that held the inflamed wound together stuck out against his light skin. Suddenly, Sherlock's pale, dexterous fingers hovered over his wound. John flinched when they sprang into his vision, but he then watched with intent as they came onto contact with the skin around the stitches. It was a little tender, but Sherlock was touching so gently that John shivered when they ghosted around his wound. He felt a sensation of sparking electricity jumping from Sherlock's fingers to his skin, and John flushed a deep crimson. When his index finger brushed across a stitch, John's breath hitched and his eyes widened. Sherlock drew his fingers away slightly and John swiftly grabbed Sherlock's hand with his.<br>"It's alright. It's all fine," he smiled, absently rubbing his thumb across Sherlock's palm.

**A/N  
>Sorry for the short update.<br>Hope you can forgive me :3  
>SH<strong>


	15. Chapter 15

**Trigger warnings, fair readers. If you can't handle self-harm, I suggest you wait for the next chapter.  
><strong>*~*  
>"Sherlock," a deep voice crooned. The young man in question flicked his eyes open and darted them around John's room. Since they'd returned from Jim's drug den, John had generously given Sherlock his bed to recover on whilst he slept on the lounge downstairs. Sherlock's eyes landed on a dark figure next to the doorway. It crept over to the bed and traced delicate fingers across Sherlock's face, grabbing onto his jaw softly and tugging him from the sheets. Sherlock's body obeyed the silent command and he was led into John's bathroom. The figure stroked across Sherlock's arm and linked its fingers with his, leading them up to the light and turning it on. Sherlock jumped when he only saw his reflection, but that in itself was frightening. He noted how dreadfully thin he was, and his eyes looked hollow, surrounded by large, dark circles that almost led down to his prominent cheekbones. He jumped again when he felt the ghosting, hallucinated hands push his own towards the sink and closer to the mirror. Sherlock whimpered at his reflection. His skin wasn't the pale porcelain that he usually donned due to an anti-social life, it was...grey.<br>He looked like he was dead.  
>And it disgusted him.<br>"Sherrrrlooock," teased the hallucination, whispering gently into Sherlock's thoughts, "we're going to open the drawer, alright?"  
>"No," Sherlock breathed, "you can't make me."<br>"I can," it whispered again, manipulating Sherlock's hands until they gripped the bathroom drawer, sliding it open to reveal the assortment of items within. The hallucination pushed Sherlock's hand inside and grabbed a fresh razor from the back of the drawer, popping the plastic covering off with his thumb. He snapped the plastic binding of the razor and stared in fear at the metal rectangles before him.  
>"Stop, please," Sherlock whimpered, breathless, "why are you doing this?"<br>"Because I hate you," rumbled the hallucination in a voice Sherlock recognised as his own, "I hate you and I want you to suffer."  
>Their linked hands grabbed at the small blade and brought it up to Sherlock's wrist. The first cut brought tears to Sherlock's eyes as the pain shot through his body. The hallucination tightened its grip around Sherlock's hand.<br>"I hate you," it hissed, making a deeper cut into Sherlock's wrist, "I want to hear you say it."  
>"No," Sherlock murmured, tears mixing with the blood on his forearm. The hallucination growled and slashed the blade across Sherlock's palm, making him hiss with pain.<br>"I hate you. Say it."  
>"I...I..." he stammered. The blade was brought across his palm again, "I hate you."<br>His head was forced up, making him stare at the swollen, dead reflection that stared back at him in digust.  
>"Again," the hallucination commanded.<br>"I hate you," he seethed at his reflection, the blade swiping across his wrist again, dripping blood on the tiles below.  
>"Again."<br>"I hate you."

_Cut.  
><em>"I hate you."  
><em>Cut.<br>_"I."  
><em>Cut.<br>_"Hate."  
><em>Cut.<br>_"YOU."  
>The blade dropped from his hands as the door to John's room opened. The hallucination freed him with a disgusted glare and Sherlock dropped to the floor, lying in the small pool of blood that had fallen from his forearm. John's footsteps trudged hesitantly into the room, stopping at the bed before turning towards the light of the bathroom. Through his pained haze, Sherlock heard John's gasp as he entered the blood-soaked bathroom.<br>"Sherlock! What the hell? Why did you do this?" He cried. John's parents rushed into his bedroom, suddenly staring wide-eyed at the teenager lying on the bathroom floor.  
>"Sherlock," John's mother breathed. Sherlock whimpered and shuddered as the last tear fell from his eye and onto the floor.<br>"I hate Sherlock."  
>*~*<p> 


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock was left lying on John's bed with a bandaged wrapped around his hand and wrist. He was curled up against the wall with his back facing John, who was seated in a chair next to the bed.  
>"Why, Sherlock? Why would you do that?" he whispered. Sherlock shifted a little in the bed.<br>"I don't know what happened. I felt like... something was controlling me. I'm...sorry, John."  
>John stood, the chair slightly scarping on the floor, making Sherlock fling his arm out and attach it to John's.<br>"John...please don't leave me..." he murmured helplessly, his head turning to reveal soft, blue eyes that shone in the moonlight that fell through the window, casting shadows on the rest of his face. His eyes slowly closed and his hand dropped away from John's arm. John sat back in the chair, listening intently to the muttering that was escaping Sherlock's lips. He leaned in closer and caught the familiar story that was falling out of him.  
>"'Tell me how much you love me,' said the woman to her lover.<br>'I'm afraid I can't,' he responded woefully. The woman smiled.  
>'Can you show me?' she asked, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes.<br>'There's only one way I can,' he stated, turning and walking out of the house..."  
>John recognised it from the piece of paper he had picked up a while ago.<br>"He walked forever," John whispered, breath brushing past Sherlock's ear, "even when he thought he'd give up, he continued. He walked until his heart began to beat with every step he took. His steps became military, a continuous rhythm that kept him alive through the weather and landscapes that surrounded him. When he couldn't walk any more, he turned around. He walked through the familiar landscape, his body thinning from not eating, his feet aching from the rhythmic steps. When he returned to his home, his lover stood in shock, eyes welling up with tears. He walked to her, and when he was in front of her, only then did he stop.  
>'I would die for you,' he whispered, collapsing at her feet as his heart stopped."<br>By the time John had completed Sherlock's story, the dark-haired boy had turned to face John, their faces only centimetres apart. John could feel Sherlock's breath mixing with his own. The smell of the thin boy filling his nostrils. When Sherlock's lips brushed his, John went over the edge. He took the weak, pale boy's hesitant lips in his own, sucking and tasting and never letting go. His hands pushed themselves into Sherlock's hair and Sherlock placed his hands on John's back and side, pulling his golden boy closer to him. When they broke apart, they looked at each other nervously. Sherlock's eyes were closing once more, heavy and exhausted from the pain he had caused his left hand. John placed a few more chaste kisses on Sherlock's lips before lying in his large bed with his arms wrapped around Sherlock's now sleeping form.

When Sherlock woke several hours later, the bed was deserted. He touched his injured hand to his lips absently and shuffled over to the depression where John had slept. It was vaguely warm against his skin- John had gotten up a few minutes beforehand. He pulled the blankets around him and curled into the warmth. Eventually, the morning sun flashed into his eyes, and he was driven out of the bed to escape the brightness. He pulled at the short singlet John had given him for pyjamas, trying to hide the lick of porcelain skin that stuck out from the bottom of the singlet and the top of the snug boxers. He silently crept downstairs to find John sitting vacantly at the table with a cup of tea in front of him. Sherlock made his way to the other side of the table, sitting and boring his eyes into John's. John blinked and woke from his daydream, smiling awkwardly and blushing a little. Sherlock reached across and held one of the hands that was resting on the teacup. John shuddered from the feel of Sherlock's warm, thin hand against his own, shifting his digits so their fingers were linked.  
>"John," Sherlock murmured, a soft rumble that was reminiscent of a faraway storm, a storm that John wanted to stand in the centre of. To see the chaos sweep around him and be anchored to the pale-skinned perfection that was Sherlock.<br>"Yes, Sherlock?" John answered hesitantly, the walls of his daydream storm wavering and threatening to shatter.  
>"I wanted to thank you. For everything."<br>"Sherlock, I didn't really-"  
>"John, this might sound stupid but... You saved me. You cared about me when no-one else did. You stopped me from becoming a slave to Moriarty and his drugs. You put yourself in danger for me...Thank you."<br>John caught the shimmer of a tear on Sherlock's bowed head and squeezed his hand reassuringly.  
>"Don't leave me. Please."<br>"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock."  
>"Promise?"<br>"I promise that I will try as hard as I can," John smiled. Sherlock followed with a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"What the _fuck_ happened to him?" Jim shouted at the doorman to his drug dungeon.  
>"I'm sorry, Mr. Moriarty. I tried to stop 'em-"<br>"_Them?_Who was with Holmes?"  
>"Another boy. 'e was short, an' 'e 'ad blond 'air an' blue eyes. Said 'e knew you, Mr. Moriarty."<br>Jim was fuming. _John fucking Watson. _How dare that bastard take _his_ Sherlock away from him. Jim stood angrily, tipping the side table that held his tea onto the floor and storming out of the damp den.

The remainder of the weekend passed with John taking Sherlock through the remains of his manor in search of any of his possessions. Charred test tubes and slides were the only salvageable thing left of Sherlock's room, which they left with the ashes of Sherlock's former home. Sherlock hadn't been able to contact Mycroft since the fire, and he felt better for it. Since neither of the Holmes parents had been found, the formalities regarding the land had been passed to Mycroft. When they returned to John's house, three uniforms had been left folded on the porch, along with a hundred pounds in an envelope addressed to Sherlock. Sherlock scowled at the suspicion that Mycroft had left it for him, making John roll his eyes and take the clothes and money inside for him. When it was time for them to return to school, Sherlock sat with John on the bus, basking in the warmth that radiated off him. As soon as the bus pulled away, Jim casually strolled up to them.  
>"Johnny. How are you?" He smiled.<br>"Fuck off, Moriarty," Sherlock growled. Jim glared at Sherlock and Sherlock stepped in front of John defensively when Jim moved towards them.  
>"I wasn't talking to <em>you, <em>Sherlock dear. That's very rude of you. Now, Johnny and I have business to attend to, if you'll let us be..."  
>"You are not getting anywhere <em>near <em>him, you psychopath," he spat. John noticed that flash of darkness and malice that swept across Jim's face as Sherlock's icy gaze pierced into him. John moved to sand next to Sherlock, grabbing his hand and linking their fingers in support. Jim stared at their hands, his eyes wide with fury and his teeth bared in an ugly snarl.  
>"What the fuck are you doing?" he hissed at John, "nobody gets to touch Sherlock but <em>me! <em>Sherlock is _mine!_"  
>"I'm pretty sure <em>I'm <em>the one holding his hand," John quipped. Jim let out a bestial growl and basically leapt at John, stopped short by Sherlock greeting Jim's face with his fist. Jim toppled over, clutching his face with what seemed to be sobs escaping his mouth.  
>"See?" he whimpered, "Sherlock loves me. Please, touch me again."<br>"You're insane," John breathed, shocked at the smiling boy kneeling in front of them. Sherlock scowled in disgust and delivered a swift kick to Jim's side, knocking him over to reveal the splatter of his own blood that had sprayed across his cheek. He laughed maniacally. Sherlock grabbed his shirt and shoved him against the wall.  
>"Wait. Sherlock, <em>you're <em>the one that beats him up?" John asked in confusion. He remembered the injuries Jim had last time he was beaten up. They way Sherlock had attacked him just now, it seemed to fit his injuries.  
>"It's okay Johnny," Jim smiled, "he feels amazing. You'll never have the connection Sherlock and I have."<br>Sherlock glared at him and tossed him to the floor. Jim grabbed onto Sherlock's leg, clinging to the fabric and burying his bloody face into it. John was fed up. He kicked the disgusting creature clinging to Sherlock's leg and Jim looked up at him in surprise that quickly contorted to pain.  
>"Johnny...That hurt..."<br>"Good. Stay the fuck away from us, you pathetic psychopath," John hissed. He turned to leave with Sherlock when he heard Jim's eerie chuckle.  
>"...You never learn, do you, Sherlock?"<br>"What?" Sherlock span to face Jim, who was painfully getting to his feet and stumbling towards them. Sherlock stepped back as Jim leaned his crimson-splattered face towards his, grinning darkly.  
>"Nothing gets in the way of us. Not your old John, not your father, and especially not your new John," Jim murmured. Sherlock's face crinkled in confusion, "how many more Johns will I have to dispose of before you're mine?"<br>"Dispose? No...no...you couldn't have..."  
>"So you honestly believe that your stupid dog just randomly had a fatal seizure? You didn't suspect anything? Seems I overestimated you."<br>"What the hell did you do to John?"  
>"Clostridium Botulinum. Please tell me you've heard of it."<br>"You poisoned his dog," John interjected in confusion, "to get _closer_ to him?"  
>"If you hadn't have come along, he would have been comforted by <em>me, <em>and _I _would be the one holding his hand!" Jim spat at John, his voice whining like a spoilt child.  
>"You burnt my fucking <em>house <em>down! Why the _hell _would I like you after that?"  
>"It got rid of your father, didn't it? I thought you would have thanked me."<br>"John, we're leaving," Sherlock tugged at John, trying to get as far away from the masochistic psychopath as possible. He pulled John into an empty classroom, collapsing to the floor in front of the door and doing something John wouldn't have thought possible.  
>John Watson watched in pain as Sherlock Holmes buried his face into him and cried.<p>

**Remember **_**that **_**story? Neither did I, but I re-read bits of the story to fully catch myself up and realised I'd left Sherlock's story to John completely unfinished. Well, here it is.  
>This story feels like it's coming to an end. Maybe in the next chapter. I know, it's been wonderful having so many lovely readers.<br>But it's currently 5am here and I'm not even sure myself. I might pull an all nighter and write the next chapter, I might wait a day. All I know is my time is limited, as after these holidays I'm doing my final exams and graduating. If this story finishes before the holidays, it will be sad, but also a relief.  
>As usual, I'm so happy with everyone that's shown love to this story. You all get internet waffles!<br>Let's see what I can do now.  
>Apologies for the enormous AN .  
>SH<strong>


	17. Chapter 17

After Sherlock has ceased his sobbing, he detached himself from John and sat blankly against the wall. John could only watch in silence as Sherlock recovered from Jim's physical and emotional assault on the pale boy. John knew it wasn't fair that Jim had ruined Sherlock's life like this, but he couldn't empathise with the loss of Sherlock's only companion. He knew that Sherlock had found another John, but he was worried that Sherlock might relapse and push him away again.  
>"John," Sherlock called softly, his face still blank with shock. John moved closer to him and gently brushed the dark curls out of Sherlock's face. Sherlock leaned into John's hand and wrapped his arms around John's waist, pulling John towards him and burying his face into the soft clothes that protected him.<br>"John," he called again, the cloth muffling his words but for the soft vibration of the syllable on John's shoulder, causing him to shudder. John pushed his hand into Sherlock's hair, moving his fingers in soft, soothing circles that caught in the dark mass but never wound tight enough to pull and cause Sherlock pain. John was greeted with a soft hum of approval, a signal for John's mind to lean forward and kiss Sherlock's forehead. He gently removed his fingers from Sherlock's hair and began to stand with a mewl of protest from the dark-haired teen. The golden boy offered his hand for Sherlock to stand with him, and the young genius accepted with a weak smile, watching John through a half-daze as he was gently tugged down the corridors.

Sherlock woke with a start in the shadows of the night, the moon washing through the window next to his bed and highlighting the eerie shapes that clung to the walls and floor. His eyes flicked a glance at the bathroom at the other side of the floor, his wrist prickling slightly as the blood rushed through his system from the heat of a nightmare. He panted as he sat upright in his bed, the cloudy vision of sleep slowly crawling from in front of his eyes. When his breathing became level, he lifted his head and sighed as the shadows tangled in the corners offered no threat. He lay back down and nuzzled his face into the warmth of the pillow, drifting off into the comfort of the bed.  
>A creak sounded outside of the doorway and Sherlock snapped his eyes open, his breath hitching as his heart skipped a beat. He turned slowly, his heavy eyes resting on the figure at the doorway.<br>"John?" he called, his voice rasp and hoarse from sleep, "John is that you?"  
>Sherlock felt relieved as the figure stepped closer. The short hair and small frame that was symbolic of John was evident in the shadow's figure. But Sherlock's feeling of warmth vanished as the figure stepped into the moonlight. A twisted smile played on the familiar face, eyes glinting with a predatory glare. Sherlock pressed himself against the wall at the edge of the bed as Jim crept towards him in the darkness, clawing his way across the sheets on all fours, the hungry look in his eyes making Sherlock nauseous.<br>Sherlock couldn't move, he felt heavy and trapped under the sheets. Jim hovered over him, a low growl escaping his lips as he leaned down and kissed Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock rolled his head to the side and clenched his eyes shut, trying to block out the feeling of Jim's hot breath on his exposed neck.  
>"Sherlock," he breathed, "I've done all these things for you, gotten rid of all your problems, and you still haven't thanked me properly..."<br>Jim chuckled darkly before retuning his attention to the pale skin underneath him, Sherlock writhing drowsily as Jim licked and sucked at him. Jim had lowered himself so that his groin was resting against Sherlock's, the feeling of Jim's hard flesh twisting Sherlock's insides with disgust and drawing a soft, pained cry from him as Jim rutted against him.  
>"Stop...stop, please," Sherlock whimpered. <em>John, help me...John...John...<em>  
>"JOHN!" He cried, sitting up in the bed. He clutched the blankets around him and flinched as footsteps rushed to the doorway and flicked the light switch, flooding Sherlock's vision. Sherlock pressed himself against the wall once more as the heavy footsteps rushed to his side. He curled in on himself, whimpering and muttering for Jim to leave him alone. He clenched the sheets around him through shaky breaths and pulled away slightly as soft hands covered his own.<br>"Sherlock."  
>The soft call of the golden-haired boy pried open Sherlock's eyes and loosened his muscles as the sound washed over him.<br>"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked, gently rubbing his hand across the taller boy's. Sherlock nodded slightly and felt his eyes droop heavily as John stroked his hand, "what happened?"  
>"Nightmare..." Sherlock mumbled. John nodded and stroked Sherlock's head soothingly.<br>"Will you be alright?"  
>"Mmm..."<br>Sherlock rested back into his pillow as John continued to stroke him. When he stopped, Sherlock reached out and clutched his hand.  
>"John...Please..."<br>John smiled and kissed Sherlock chastely as he moved towards the doorway. Sherlock was about to protest before the light was turned off and John's footsteps moved towards him once more. Sherlock felt the sheets at the edge of the bed lift and the cold draught of air seep into his pyjamas before it was blocked by John's warm body joining him in the bed. Sherlock clutched him sleepily and pulled him into his chest as John wrapped his arm around the slender boy.  
>"I won't let Moriarty hurt you any more, Sherlock."<br>"...Thank you, John," he whispered, inhaling the soft scent from the top of John's head as they fell asleep tangled in each other.

**I keep forgetting how I have my A/Ns. How sad.  
>Anyway, I <strong>_**still**_** haven't forgotten about this, and I wish I had a constructive excuse for my absence like "I was writing for NaNo" or something, but I don't. I honestly have had a pretty hard time emotionally over the past couple of weeks and I'm not going to bore you with the details. I've had very little motivation for this, other fics, art, blah, blah, blah and for that I apologise. Also like always this is excruciatingly short, because I've only started to get my motivation back and I really had to post **_**something.**_** So have some fluff.  
>I won't be updating regularly, because I'm still a little upset and Christmas is approaching and making me a little stressed.<br>But enough about my problems. Enjoy this chapter and I hope to post another one or two between now and New Year's.  
>Thanks for being so patient, as always.<br>SH**


	18. Chapter 18

Jim smiled in the darkness of his room. The scent of melting wax filled the air and he grinned at the tools he had laid out on his bedside table. He sat on the edge of the bed, dipping his fingers into the hot wax and relishing the tingling heat on his skin. He'd never liked drugs. Far too messy, getting caught up in his own business. But in this case, it helped him imagine that he was not alone. That the delicious, thin frame of Sherlock was lying naked in the bed, clawing at his back in a silent plea to join him.  
>"With pleasure," Jim breathed, lying back on his sheets with his hallucinated partner. He could feel Sherlock's delicate fingers stretching across his skin, the thin digits teasing him as they dances across his torso. They reached across to the table, flickering paleness illuminated by the dim candlelight, picking up a small blade and smirking as he held it in front of the Irish boy. Jim grinned in return, letting out a small cry of pleasure as the metal was dragged across his skin. He looked up into the hallucinated eyes of his desire, growling playfully and smiling as delicate fingers pressed against his wound and drew out more blood. Jim reached down and kneaded the hardening flesh between his thighs.<br>"I will have you, Sherlock. You will be mine," he hissed greedily.

Sherlock woke in John's embrace. He watched John's chest rise and fall as he peacefully slept, no lines of worry or discomfort etched into his face as Sherlock suspected his own to have. He gently broke free, feeling a horrible lethargic weight in his arms and legs. He shakily moved across the bed, trying to escape the smothering heat of their bodies and falling heavily to the floor in the process. He groaned and tired to lift himself from the floor, but his limbs buckled and slid from underneath him.  
>"John," he whispered hoarsely, trying to crawl back to the bed. He clutched the blanket covering the short boy and pulled it as he collapsed once more. John roused from his sleep, ejecting a yawn and looking sleepily for Sherlock. Upon hearing another thud from the side of the bed, John slowly turned his head to find Sherlock reaching for him with a hurt expression on his face.<br>"John," he whispered again, stretching up into the air before landing back onto the floor with another thud. John practically leapt from the bed and held onto Sherlock tightly, trying to pull him back onto the bed. Yet every time John thought he had a firm grasp on the teen, Sherlock's body always slipped from his arms and landed back on the cold, hard floor. John let him go, scared and defeated as Sherlock remained motionless on the floor save for his weak breaths.  
>"I'll be back Sherlock. Just wait, I'll be back," John soothed, stroking Sherlock's head before rushing down the stairs and to the phone in the kitchen. He grabbed it from the receiver, punching in the numbers 999 and holding the phone to his ear.<br>Silence.  
>The phone was dead. And he feared that if he didn't do something Sherlock would be too.<p>

"Are ya sure it was a good idea, sir?" Jim's doorman questioned upon his boss' return.  
>"A better idea than when you let the Watson boy in here," Jim seethed. Of course Jim was still furious. And his doorman knew it, he just didn't know how to keep his mouth shut.<br>"But if ya really want 'im, why're ya tryin' to kill 'im?"  
>"I don't care what condition he's in. If I want Sherlock, I will get Sherlock. Mark my words."<br>The doorman frowned slightly as he followed Jim down the desolate hallways of his den, the eeriness of emptiness reverberating off the walls and making him shiver. It was silence such as this that made the doorman hate being alone with Jim. Especially after he'd lost Sherlock.

John had re-entered to room to find Sherlock still lying in the position he'd left him in. John rushed to him, carding has hands through the tangled mass of dark hair as he tried to soothe Sherlock. Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, trying to form words but no sound came out.  
>It was then that John felt it. A tiny bump on Sherlock's scalp. John parted the mass of dark hair and saw a tiny grey lump against his pale skin.<br>"What the hell is _that?_" John whispered, prodding the lump with the tip of his finger and jumping as it wriggled deeper into Sherlock's scalp.

It took John exactly one minute and fifteen seconds to reach the phone box at the end of the street. Panting, he held the phone to his ear and prayed to whatever higher being was available at the time for the phone to work. His heart jumped when he heard the voice of the operator.  
>"I need an ambulance. Quickly. My friend's in danger."<br>After he finished making the call, it took him exactly one minute and fourteen seconds to run back into his house and cradle Sherlock's unmoving form to his chest.  
>"You'll be alright, Sherlock. The ambulance is coming. You'll be alright." <p>


End file.
